PRICE, 


STANDARD 


1O  CtS. 


PUBLISHERS, 


ST., 


STANDARD  RECITATIONS  BY  BEST  AUTHORS. 


A  Choice  Collection  of  Beautiful  Compositions, 

CABEFULL.T  COMPILED  FOB 

SCHOOL,  LYCEUM,  PARLOR  AND  OTHER  ENTERTAINMENTS, 

By  FRANCES  P.  SULLIVAN. 


CONTENTS    OF    3Vo.     1O. 


PAGE 

The  Building  of  the  Ship.     E.  J.  Pope 3 

The  Idiot  Boy.     Anon 4 

My  Mother's  Bible.     George  P.  Morris 4 

Tne  Trumpet.     Mrs.  Hemans 5 

Fortitude  more  than  Bravery.    Mrs.  Hemans    5 
Never  say  "I  Can't.''     Mrs.'  M.  A.  Kidder...     5 

Baby's  Things.     Thalia  Wilkinson 5 

The  Children  in  the  Moon.     From  the  Scan- 

^     dinaviau 6 

Cleon  and  I.      Charles  Mackay 6 

Courage.     Barry  Cornwall....." 7 

Life.    Barry  Cornwall 7 

The  Child  and  the  Sunshine.     Geo.  Cooper.     7 

Polish  War  Song.     James  C.  Percival 7 

The  Coliseum.     Byron 8 

The  Shipwreck.     William  Falconer 8 

There  is  no  such  Word  as  Fail 8 

God  Know-;.    Nathan  D.  Urner 9 

Virtue,  Be.iuty,  Piety,  are  One.   Mrs.  Russell 

K;  i  van;  i  ugh 9 

The  Pharisee's  Prayer.     H.  H.  Johnson 10 

The  Misnomer.     Josie  C.  Malott 10 

Up  and  be  Doing 11 

The  Scottish  Exile 11 

Paradise.     Riickert 12 

Song  of  the  Bush-Boy.     Pringle 12 

The  Flight  of  the  Giaour.     Byron 13 

The  Word  that  was  not  too  Late.     Eben  E. 

Rexford 14 

The  Drummer-Boy  of  Cardinell.        Nettie 

Patterson 15 

The  Unknown  God.     John  Joslyn 15 

Kesurgam.     Eben  E.  Rexford 1C 

The  Bookkeeper 16 

The  Fault  of  the  Age.     Ella  Viceler 17 

The  Sergeant's  Story.     Wyr.r^.^j  Kit 17 

After  a  Little.     J.  W.  Donors  18 

Do  Your  Part.     J.W.Donovan 19 

Maclaine's  Child.     Anonymous 19 

Drew  the  Wrong  Lever.  Alexander  Andersen  20 

In  the  Dark.    Geo.  Arnold 21 

The  Old  Homestead.      Walter  Bruce 21 

The  Crowded  Street.  William  Cullen  Bryant  22 

The  Guiding  Light.     T.  F.  Watson ' 22 

A   Translation  from  the  Romaic.     Charles 

L.  Graves 23 

The  Lan  d  of  our  Birth.     Lillie  E.  Barr 2-1 

Before  the  Battle.     William  Andrew  Harper  24 
"  East  or  West,  Home  is  Best."    Mattie  S. 

Dunn 25 

The  Song  of  the  Gibbet.     Alfred  Thompson  26 


PAOB 

Pawnee  Pete.     A  Tale  of  the  Yellowstone 

Bill  Y.  Butts 26 

Quatrains  from  Omar  Khayyam.     W.  Stokes  27 

An  Engineer's  Story *. 27 

Clouds  and  Sunlight.    Duncan  Macgiegor...  28 
Choice  of  Trades.      A  Recitation  for  several 

Little  Boys 28 

Small  Beginnings.     Charles  Mackay 2' 

The  Common  Lot.     James  Montgomery j 

Three  Rules.     (A  Temperance  Recitation 

Austin  Q.  Hagermau 30 

Our  Own  Dear  Laud.      J.R.Thomas 30 

'Tis  not  Fine  Feathers  tnat  make  Fine  1'  rds. 

Anon 31 

The  Battle.    Translated  from  Schille-  l.y  Sir 

E.  Bulwer  Lytton 31 

The  Earl  of  Richmond  to  his  Army.    Shake- 
speare   '. 32 

Switzerland.—"  William  Tell."  Barnes  Sher'il 

dan  Knowles 33 

The  Death  of  Leonidas.     Rev   Geo.  Croly..!  33 
The  True  King.      Translat.  I  from  Seneca, 

by  Leigh  Hunt 34 

The  Pilot.      Thomas  Hayaes  Bayly. . . . / 34 

Truth  and  Honor ! .C. 35 

One  by  One.     Adelaide  A.  Procter . . . .  I 36 

The  "Rogues'  Gallery" 36 

We're  Growing  Old  together.     William  Ball  37 

Their  Golden  Wedding.      James  Roach : : 7 

The  OH  Oaken  Bucket.  Samuel  \Voodw<>rth  '•'! 
Extract  from  the  Deserted  Village.     Oliver 

Goldsmith 3y 

Uncle  Joe.    Anonymous 40 

Fourth  of  July.     George  W.  Bethune 4  C 

The  Poor  Man  and  the  Fiend.      Anonymous  41 
Footsteps  on  the   Other  Side.       Margaret 

Eytinge 4> 

The  Wolves.     Trowbridge 42 

The  Noblest  Men.      Anonymous 4:! 

Sheridan    at    Stone    River.         Sherman  D. 

Richardson 4  ; 

The  Old  Mill.     Thomas  Dunn  English 4.~> 

"  Then  be  Content,  Poor  Heart."   Mrs. 

Riley  Smith 4:, 

The  Old  Professor -ir, 

Parson  Caldwell 41; 

The  Snake  in  the  Grass.     J.  G.  Saxe 

DareandDol     J.  W.  SanWu 47 

The  Toy  of  the  Giant's  Child.     From  the 
German  of  Chamiseo...  48 


Copyrighted  1866,  by  M.  J.  IT»M  &  Co. 


LIBRARY 


THE 


ROBERT  EMMET 


Splendid  Collection  of  Lyric  Gems 


BANIM,  BROUGHAM, 

BALPE,  CALLANAN, 

HALPINE,  KEEGAN, 

"CLOVER,   MEAGHER, 
THOMAS  MOORE,  FATHERS  PROUT  AND  RYAN, 

AND   OTEfER  WELL    KNOWN 


NEW    YORK: 

M.  J.  IVERS  &  CO.,  86  NASSAU  STREET. 

Copyrighted  1880,  by  M  J.  Ivers'&  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Acushla  gal  machree 38 

Aileen 39 

Aileen,  mavourneen 54 

Am  I  not  fondly  thine  own  ? 26 

Angel's  Whisper 32 

Battle  of  Fontenoy 20 

Bells  of  Shandon 21 

Ben  Bolt  and  Sweet  Alice 51 

Birth  of  Ireland •.  57 

Boys  of  Kilkenny 27 

Breathe  not  his  name 50 

Brennen  on  the  inoor 64 

Brian  the  Brave 17 

Caoch,  the  Piper 52 

•Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen. .  48 

Come  rest  in  this  bosom 12 

Dear  harp  of  my  country 44 

Dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland.  .   27 

Death  of  SarsfiVld 16 

Digging  for  gold 61 

Dirge  of  O' Sullivan  Beare 24 

Dublin  Bay 32 

Emmet's  death 4 

Erin-go-bragh 16 

Erin  is  my  home 19 

Erin  marourneen 63 

Exile  of  Erin 31 

Fairy  Boy 15 

Farewell  to  my  harp 39 

Grave  of  Wolfe  Tone -V) 

Green  above  the  Red 30 

He  like  a  soldier  fell 45 

Her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still.   17 

I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs 49 

Irish  Astronomy 59 

I  shall  meet  thee  again 4(5 

I  won't  let  you  in 46 

I  would  not  die  in  youth's,  etc. ...  44 

Kate  Kearney 47 

Kathleen  mavourneen 25 

Kilkenny  cats 60 

Killarney's  lakeg  and  fells 10 

Kitty  Tyrrell 26 

^.ament  of  the  Irish  emigrant. ...   41 
Lsmnegan's  Ball 62 


Let  Erin  remember,  etc 11 

Limerick  is  beautiful 38 

Meeting  of  the  waters 9 

Memory  of  the  dead 6 

Minstrel  Boy 3 

Molly  Bawn 29 

Mother,  he's  going  away 7 

O'Donnell  Abu 12 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 37 

One  of  the  rank  and  file 45 

Orange  and  Green 8 

O  the  Shamrock 11 

Paddy  Blake's  echo \ 55 

Paddy  is  the  boy 43 

Pat  Malloy ". 42 

' '  Persevere  " 14 

Rising  of  the  moon 42 

Rory  of  the  hills 28 

Rory  O'Moore 13 

Shamrock,  the  four-leaved 19 

Shamus  O'Brian 33 

She  is  far  from  the  land 5 

Soldier  of  Erin 51 

Soldier's  tear 49 

Song  of  the  Irish  exile.  1 40 

Sweet  Nora  McShane 48 

"     O'Neil 47 

St.  Patrick  and  the  Serpent 58 

Swords  of  former  time 4 

The  Blackbird 23 

Harp  that  once  in  Tara's  halls.     3 

Heart  bowed  down 30 

Irishman 63 

Macs  and  the  O's 23 

Reconciliation 5 

Valley  lay  smiling  before  me.  40 

Whistling  thief 54 

White  Cockade 25 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 6 

Unroll  Erin's  flag  to  the  breeze. . .   56 

Why  don't  you  come  home? 37 

Widow  Machree 18 

Wild  rose  of  Erin 49 

You'll  remember  me 24 

Your  party  girl  milking  the  cow-  43 


THE 


ROBERT  EMMET  SONG  AND  RECITATION  BOOK, 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THRO'  TARA'S  HALLS. 

AIR — "  Gramachree." 

THE  harp  that  once,  thro'  Tara's  halls, 

The  soul  of  Music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled  : 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er  ; 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 
Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more  ! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord,  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells  : 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes — 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart,  indignant,  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives  ! 


THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

'AiR — "  The  Moreen." 

THE  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him  ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of  Song  !"  said  the  warrior-bard, 

"  Tho'  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  !  " 

The  Minstrel  fell  ! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  that  proud  soul  under  ; 
The  harp  he  lov'd  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder  ; 
And  said  :  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  ! " 


EMMET'S  DEATH. 

BY  S.    P.    C. 

*'  HE  dies  to-day,"  said  the  heartless  judge, 

Whilst  he  sate  him  down  to  the  feast, 
And  a  smile  was  upon  his  ashy  lip 

As  he  uttered  a  ribald  jest ; 
For  a  demon  dwelt  where  his  heart  should  be. 

That  lived  upon  blood  and  sin, 
And  oft  as  that  vile  judge  gave  him  food 

The  demon  throbbed  within. 

"  He  dies  to-day,"  said  the  jailer  grim, 

While  a  tear  was  in  his  eye  ; 
"  But  why  should  I  feel  so  grieved  for  Jiim? 

Sure  I've  seen  many  die  ! 
Last  night  I  went  to  his  stony  cell, 

With  the  scanty  prison  fare — 
He  was  sitting  at  a  table  rude, 

Plaiting  a  lock  of  hair  ! 
And  he  look'd  so  mild,  with  his  pale — pale  face, 

And  he  spoke  in  so  kind  a  way, 
That  my  old  breast  heav'd  with  a  smothering  feel, 

And  I  knew  not  what  to  say  ! " 

"  He  dies  to-day,"  thought  a  fair,  sweet  girl — 

She  lacked  the  life  to  speak, 
For  sorrow  had  almost  frozen  her  blood, 

And  white  were  her  lip  and  cheek — 
Despair  had  drank  up  her  last  wild  tear, 

And  her  brow  was  damp  and  chill. 
And  they  often- felt  at  her  heart  with  fear, 

For  its  ebb  was  all  but  still. 


OH,  FOR  THE  SWORDS  OF  FORMER  TIME! 

OH,  for  the  swords  of  former  time  ! 

Oh,  for  the  men  who  bore  them  ; 
When,  arm'd  for  Right,  they  stood  sublime, 

And  tyrants  crouch'd  before  them  ! 
When  pure  yet,  ere  courts  began 

With  honors  to  enslave  him, 
The  best  honors  worn  by  Man 

Were  those  which  virtue  gave  him. 

Oh,  for  the  swords  of  former  time,  etc. 

Oh,  for  the  kings  who  flourish 'd  then  ! 

Oh,  for  the  pomp  tliat  crown'd  them  ; 
Wlien  hearts  and  hands  of  freel>orn  men 

Were  all  the  ramparts  'round  them. 
When,  safe  built  on  bosoms  true, 

The  throne  was  but  the  center, 
'Round  which  Love  a  circle  drew, 

That  Treason  duot  not  enter. 

Oh,  for  the  kings  who  rlourish'd  then,  etc. 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND.* 

AIR — "  Open  the  Door." 

SHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  Hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  around  her  sighing  ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying  ! 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  lov'd  awaking. — 
Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking  ! 

He  had  liv'd  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwin'd  him, 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him  ! 

Oh  !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  Island  of  sorrow  ! 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

BY  JOHN  BANIM. 

[The  facts  of  this  ballad  occurred  in  a  little  mountain-chapel,  in  the  county  of  Clare,  at 
the  time  efforts  were  made  to  put  an  end  to  faction-fighting  among  the  peasantry.] 

THE  old  man  he  knelt  at  the  altar, 

His  enemy's  hand  to  take, 
And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter, 

And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake  : 
For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had  been  stretched  at  the  old  man's  feet 
A  corpse,  all  so  haggard  and  gory, 

By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet. 

And  soon  the  old  man  stopped  speaking, 

And  rage,  which  had  not  gone  by, 
From  under  his  brows  came  breaking 

Up  into  his  enemy's  eye — 
And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking, 

But  his  clinch'd  hands  his  bosom  cross'd 
And  he  looked  a  fierce  wish  to  be  taking 

Revenge  for  the  boy  he  had  lost. 

But  the  old  man  he  looked  around  him, 

And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 
And  thought  of  the  promise  which  bound  him, 

And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin — 
And  then,  crying  tears,  like  a  woman, 

"Your  hand  !  "  he  said — "ay,  that  hand  ! 
And  I  do  forgive  you,  foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  bleeding  land  ! " 

*  Thie  poem  was  written  on  the  death  of  Sarah  Cnrran,  who  was  engaged  to  the  im- 
laortal  Emmet.    She  died  in  Italy,  of  a  broken  heart,  soon  after  her  lorer  was  executed. 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

Ant — "  Groves  of  Blarni'tj." 


'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone  ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 


Thus  kindly  I  scatter 
Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 

Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

ANONYMOUS. 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Wrho  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus  ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few — 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave- 
Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 
All — all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died—- 
All true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made  ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home  ! 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 


They  'rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land  ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas  !  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 

They  fell  and  passed  away  ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here's  their  memory — maybe 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  ; 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight ! 


MOTHER,  HE'S  GOING  AWAY. 

Mother. 
Now  what  are  you  crying  for,  Nelly  ? 

Don't  be  blubbering  there  like  a  fool ; 
With  the  weight  o'  the  grief,  faith,  I  tell  you 

You'll  break  down  the  three-legged  stool. 
I  suppose  now  you're  crying  for  Barney, 

But  don't  b'lieve  a  word  that  he'd  say, 
He  tells  nothing  but  big  lies  and  blarney — 
Sure  you  know  how  he  served  poor  Kate  Karney 

Daughter.  But  mother  ! 

Mother.       Oh,  bother. 

Daughter.  Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away, 

And  I  dreamt  the  other  night 

Of  his  ghost — all  in,  white  7 

[Mother  speaks  in  an  undertone.}     The  dirty  blackguard  f 
Daughter.  Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away. 

Mother. 
If  he's  going  away,  all  the  betther — 

Blessed  hour  when  he's  out  of  your  sight 
There's  one  comfort — you  can't  get  a  letther — 

For  yiz  neither  can  read  nor  can  write. 
Sure  't  was  only  last  week  you  protested, 

Since  he  courted  fat  Jinney  McCray, 
That  the  sight  o'  the  scamp  you  detested — 
With  abuse  sure  your  tongue  never  rested — • 

DaugJiter.  But,  mother ! 

Mother.       Oh,  bother ! 

Daughter.  Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away. 

[Mother  speaking  again  with  peculiar  parental  mety.'}    May 

he  never  come  back. 
Daughter.  And  I  dream  of  his  ghost, 

Walking  round  my  bedpost — 

Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away.  S-  LOVER. 


8  ORANGE  AND  GREEN. 

THB  night  was  falling  dreary 

In  merry  Banton  town, 
When,  in  his  cottage,  weary, 

An  Orangeman  lay  down. 
The  summer  sun  in  splendor 

Had  set  upon  the  vale, 
And  shouts  of  :  "No  surrender  ! " 

Arose  upon  the  gale. 


Beside  the  waters  laving 

The  feet  of  aged  trees, 
The  Orange  banner  waving, 

Flew  boldly  in  the  breeze — 
In  mighty  chorus  meeting, 

A  hundred  voices  joined, 
And  fife  and  drum  were  beating 

The  Battle  of  the  B&yne. 

Ha  !  tow'rd  his  cottage  hieing, 

What  form  is  speeding  now, 
From  yonder  tliicket  flying, 

With  blood  upon  his  brow  ? 
"  Hide — hide  me,  worthy  stranger, 

Though  green  my  color  be, 
And  in  the  day  of  danger 

May  Heaven  remember  thee  ! 

"  In  yonder  vale  contending 

Alone  against  that  crew, 
My  life  and  limbs  defending, 

An  Orangeman  I  slew. 
Hark  !  hear  that  fearful  warning, 

There's  death  in  every  tone — 
Oh,  save  my  life  till  morning, 

And  Heaven  prolong  your  own ! " 

The  Orange  heart  was  melted 

In  pity  to  the  Green  ; 
He  heard  the  tale,  and  felt  it 

His  very  soul  within. 
"  Dread  not  that  angry  warning 

Though  death  be  in  its  tone — 
I'll  save  your  life  till  morning, 

Or  I  will  lose  my  own." 

Now,  'round  his  lowly  dwelling 

The  angry  torrent  press'd, 
A  hundred  voices  swelling, 

The  Orangeman  addressed — 
' '  Arise — arise,  and  follow 

The  chase  along  the  plain  ! 
In  yonder  stony  hollow 

Your  only  son  is  slain  1 " 


With  rising  shouta  they  gather 

Upon  the  track  amain, 
And  leave  the  childless  father 

Aghast  with  sudden  pain. 
He  seeks  the  righted  stranger 

In  covert  where  he  lay — 
"  Arise  !  "  he  said,  "  all  danger 

Is  gone  and  past  away  ! 


"  I  had  a  son — one  only, 

One  loved  as  my  life, 
Thy  hand  has  left  me  lonely, 

In  that  accursed  strife. 
I  pledged  my  word  to  save  thee 

Until  the  storm  should  cease. 
I  kept  the  pledge  I  gave  thee — 

Arise,  and  go  in  peace  !  " 

The  stranger  soon  departed 

From  that  unhappy  vale  ; 
The  father,  broken-hearted, 

Lay  brooding  o'er  the  tale. 
Full  twenty  summers  after, 

To  silver  turned  his  beard  ; 
And  yet  the  sound  of  laughter 

From  him  was  never  heard. 

The  night  was  falling  dreary 

In  merry  Wexford  town, 
When  in  his  cabin,  weary, 

A  peasant  laid  him  down. 
And  many  a  voice  was  singing 

Along  the  summer  vale, 
And  Wexford  town  was  ringing 

With  shouts  of  :  "  Granua  tlile." 

"  My  hair,"  he  said,  "is  hoary, 

And  feeble  is  my  hand, 
And  I  could  tell  a  story 

Would  shame  your  cruel  band. 
Full  twenty  years  and  over 

Have  changed  my  heart  and  brow 
And  I  am  grown  a  lover 

Of  peace  and  concord  now. 

"It  was  not  thus  I  greeted 

Your  brother  of  the  Green  ; 
When,  fainting  and  defeated, 

I  freely  took  him  in. 
I  pledged  my  word  to  save  him 

From  vengeance  rushing  on, 
I  kept  the  pledge  I  gave  him, 

Though  he  had  killed  my  son." 


That  aged  peasant  heard  him, 

And  knew  him  as  he  stood, 
Bemembrance  kindly  stirr'd  him, 

And  te»der  gratitude. 
With  gushing  tears  of  pleasure, 

He  pierced  the  listening  train — 
"  I'm  here  to  pay  the  measure 

Of  kindness  back  again  ! " 

Upou  his  bosom  falling, 

That  old  man's  tears  came  down 
Deep  memory  recalling 

The  cot  and  fatal  town. 
"  The  hand  that  would  offend  thee 

My  being  first  shall  end  ; 
I'm  living  to  defend  thee, 

My  savior  and  my  friend  ! " 

Beside  the  waters,  laving 

The  feet  of  aged  trees, 
The  green  flag,  gayly  waving, 

Was  spread  against  the  breeze — 
In  mighty  chorus  meeting, 

Loud  voices  filled  the  town, 
And  fire  and  drum  were  beating, 

Down,  Orangemen,  lie  down  !  " 


Hark  !  'mid  the  stirring  clangor       9 

That  woke  the  echoes  there, 
Loud  voices,  high  in  anger, 

Rise  on  the  evening  air. 
Like  billows  of  the  ocean, 

He  sees  them  hurry  on — 
And,  'mid  the  wild  commotion, 

An  Orangeman  alone. 

He  said,  and  slowly  turning, 

Address'd  the  wondering  crowd, 
With  fervent  spirit  burning, 

He  told  the  tale  aloud. 
Now  pressed  the  warm  beholders, 

Their  aged  foe  to  greet ; 
They  raised  him  on  their  shoulders 

And  chaired  him  through  the  street. 

As  he  had  saved  that  stranger 

From  peril  scowling  dim, 
So  in  his  day  of  danger 

Did  Heav'n  remember  him. 
By  joyous  crowds  attended, 

The  worthy  pair  were  seen, 
And  their  flags  that  day  were  blended 

Of  Orange  and  of  Green. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS.* 
Am—"  The  Old  Head  of  Denis." 

THERE  is  not  in  this  wild  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet.f 
Oh,  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh,  110— it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  ev'ry  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear  ; 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Ovoca  !  how  caljn  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  which  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

*  "  The  Meeting  of  the  Waters"  forms  a  part  of  that  beautiful  icenery  which  lie* 
between  Rathdrum  and  Arklow,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow  ;  and  these  lines  were  iugge«ted 
¥y  a  rieitto  this  romantic  spot,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1806. 

t  The  rivew  of  Avon  and  Oyoca. 


10  KILLABNEY. 

BY  M.  W.  BALFE. 

BY  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells, 

Emerald  isles  and  winding  bays 
Mountain  paths,  and  woodland  dells, 

Memory  ever  fondly  strays. 
Bounteous  nature  loves  all  lands, 

Beauty  wanders  everywhere, 
Footprints  leaves  on  many  strands, 
But  her  home  is  surely  there. 
Angels  fold  their  wings  and  rest 
In  that  Eden  of  the  west, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Heaven's  reflex,  Killarney. 

Innisf alien's  ruin'd  shrine 

May  suggest  a  passing  sigh, 
But  man's  faith  can  ne'er  decline 

Such  God's  wonders  floating  by 
Castle  Lough  and  Glena  Bay, 

Mountains  Tore  and  Eagle's  Nest, 
Still  at  Muckross  you  must  pray, 
Though  the  monks  are  now  at  rest. 
Angels  wonder  not  that  man 
There  would  fain  prolong  life's  span 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Heaven' s  reflex,  Killarney. 

No  place  else  can  charm  the  eye 

With  such  bright  and  varied  tints, 
Every  rock  that  you  pass  by 

Verdure  borders  or  besprints. 
Virgin  there  the  green  grass  grows, 

Every  morn  Spring's  natal  day, 
Bright  hued  berries  daff  the  snows, 
Smiling  winter's  frown  away. 
Angels  often  pausing  there, 
Doubt  if  Eden  were  more  fair, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Heaven's  reflex,  Killarney. 

Music  there  for  echo  dwells, 

,  Makes  each  sound  a  harmony, 

Many  voic'd  the  chorus  swells, 

Till  it  faints  in  ecstasy. 
With  the  charmf  ul  tints  below 

Seems  the  heaven  above  to  vie, 
All  rich  colors  that  we  know 
Tinge  the  cloud- wreaths  in  that  sky. 
Wings  of  angels  so  might  shine, 
Glancing  back  soft  light  divine, 
Beauty's  home,  Killarney, 
Heaven's  reflex,  Killarney. 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OP  OLD 

AIR—"  The  Red  Fox." 

LET  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betrayed  her, 
When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold 

Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader ; 
When  her  kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfurl'd, 

Led  the  Red  Branch  Knights  to  danger, 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 

On  Lough  Neagh's  bank,  as  the  fisherman  strays. 

When  the  clear  cold  eve's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining  ! 
Thus  shall  Memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over ; 
Thus,  sighing,  look  thro'  the  waves  of  Time 

For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover. 


11 


OH,    THE    SHAMROCK. 

AIR — "Alley  Croker." 


THROUGH  Erin's  Isle, 

To  sport  awhile 
As  Love  and  Valor  wander'd, 

With  Wit,  the  sprite, 

Whose  quiver  bright, 
A  thousand  arrows  squander'd  ; 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass*  [mg> 

Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  stream- 
As  softly  green 

As  emeralds,  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming  ! 
Oh,  the  shamrock,  the  green,  immor- 

Chosen  leaf      [tal  shamrock  ! 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  shamrock  ! 

Says  Valor  :  ' '  See, 

They  spring  for  me, 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  1 " 

Says  Love  :   "No — no, 

For  me  they  grow  ! 
My  fragrant  path  adorning  ! " 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  triple  leaves, 


And  cries  :  "  Oh  !  do  not  sever 
A  type,  that  blends 
Three  godlike  friends, 
Love,  Valor,  Wit,  forever  ! " 
Oh,  the  shamrock,  the  green,  immor- 
Chosen  leaf      [tal  shamrock  ! 
Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  shamrock  ! 

So  firmly  fond 
May  the  last  bond 
They  wove  that  morn  together, 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather  I 

May  Love,  as  twine 

His  flowers  divine, 
Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  'em  f 

May  Valor  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 
Oh,  the  shamrock,  the  green,  immor- 

Chosen  leaf      [tal  shamrock  ! 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  shamrock  ! 


*  Saint  Patrick  is  Baid  to  have  made  use  of  the  species  of  the  trefoil,  to  which  in  Ireland 
we  get  the  name  of  Shamrock,  in  explaining  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  to  the  Pagan  Irish. 
I  do  not  know  if  there  be  any  other  reason  for  our  adoption  of  the  plant  as  a  nationalemblem. 
Hope,  among  the  ancients,  was  sometimes  represented  as  a  beautiful  child  "  standing  upon 
tip-toes,  and  a  trefoil  of  three-colored  grass  in  her  hand.'1 


12  COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

AIR — :<  Lough  Sheding" 

COME,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  dear  ! 
Tho'  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here : 
Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  the  heart  and  the  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last ! 

Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same, 
Thro'  joy  and  thro'  torments,  thro'  glory  and  shame  t 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not  if  guilt's  in  that  heart 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art  ! 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  Angel,  in  moments  of  bliss, 
Still  thy  Angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  hours  of  this — 
Thro'  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish  there  too. 


O'DONNELL    ABU. 
BY  M.  j.  M'CANX. 

PROUDLY  the  note  of  the  trumpet  is  sounding, 

Loudly  the  war-cries  arise  on  the  gale, 
Fleetly  the  steed  by  Loc  Suilig  is  bounding, 

To  join  the  thick  squadrons  in  Saimear's  green  vale. 
On,  every  mountaineer, 
Strangers  to  flight  and  fear  ; 
Rush  to  the  standard  of  dauntless  Red  Hugh  ' 
Bonnought  and  Qallowglass 
Throng  from  each  mountain  pass  ! 
On  for  old  Erin — O'Donnell  abu  ! 

Princely  O'Neill  to  our  aid  is  advancing, 

With  many  a  chieftain  and  warrior-clan  ; 
A  thousand  proud  steeds  in  his  vanguard  are  prancing, 
'Neath  the  borders  brave  from  the  banks  of  the  Bann  ; 
Many  a  heart  shall  quail 
Under  its  coat  of  mail  ; 
Deeply  the  merciless  tyrant  shall  rue 
When  on  his  ear  shall  ring, 
Borne  on  the  breeze's  wing, 
Tyrconnell's  dread  war-cry — O'Donnell  abu  ! 

Wildly  o'er  Desmond  the  war  wolf  is  howling, 

Fearless  the  eagle  sweeps  over  the  plain, 
The  fox  in  the  streets  of  the  city  is  prowling, 

All — all  who  would  scare  them  are  banished  or  slain  I 
Grasp,  every  stalwart  hand, 
Hackbut  and  battle-brand — 
Pay  them  all  back  the  deep  debt  so  long  due  ; 
Norris  and  Clifford  well 
Can  of  Tir-Conaill  tell- 
Onward  to  glory — O'Donnell  abu  1 


Sacred  the  cause  that  Clan-Conaill's  defending —  13 

The  altars  we  kneel  at  and  homes  of  our  sires  ; 
Ruthless  the  ruin  the  foe  is  extending — 
Midnight  is  red  with  the  plunderer's  fires  ! 
On  with  O'Donnell,  then, 
Fight  the  old  fight  again, 
Sons  of  Tir-Conaill  all  valiant  and  true  ; 
Make  the  false  Saxon  feel 

Erin's  avenging  steel  !  s 

Strike  for  your  country  ! — O'Donnell  abu  ! 


RORY  O'MORE:  OR,  GOOD  OMENS. 

BY   SAMUEL,  LOVER. 

YOUNG  RORY  O'MORE  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 
He- was  bold  as  a  hawk,  she  as  soft  as  the  dawn  ; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  de  that  was  to  tease. 

"  Now,  Rory  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
(Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye,) 
"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about ; 
Faith  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 

"  Oh  !  jewel,"  says  Rory,   "  that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  this  many  a  day  ; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,   "  don't  think  of  the  like, 

For  1  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike  ; 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Faith,"  says  Rory,   "  I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground.'" 

"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go  ; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so  !" 
"  Oh,"  says  Rory,   "  that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  drames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear  ; 

"  Oh  !  jewel,  keep  draming  that  same  till  you  die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie  T 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teased  me  enough. 
Sure  I've  thrash'd  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff  ,-, 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think  after  that  I  may  talk  to  the  praste." 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 

And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light; . 

And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips  ; — don't  you  think  he  was  right?' 

"  Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  ;  you'll  hug  me  no  more, 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you've  kiss'd  me  before." 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,     '  to  make  sure,. 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More.. 


U  "PERSEVERE." 

BY   JOHN   BROUGHAM. 

ROBERT,  the  Bruce,  in  the  dungeon  stood 

Waiting  the  hour  of  doom  ; 
Behind  him  the  Palace  of  Holyrood, 

Before  him,  a  nameless  tomb. 
And  the  foam  on  his  lip  was  flecked  with  red, 
As  away  to  the  past  his  memory  sped, 
Upcalling  the  day  of  his  great  renown 
When  he  won  and  he  wore  the  Scottish  crown  ; 

Yet  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine, 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  I  have  sat  on  the  royal  seat  of  Scone," 

He  muttered,  below  his  breath  ; 
"  It's  a  luckless  change,  from  a  kingly  throne 

To  a  felon's  shameful  death." 
And  he  clenched  his  hand  in  his  despair, 
And  he  struck  at  the  shapes  that  were  gathering  there 
Pacing  his  cell  in  impatient  rage, 
As  a  new-caught  lion  paces  his  cage  ; 

But  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  web  so  fine. 

"  Oh,  were  it  my  fate  to  yield  up  my  life 

At  the  head  of  my  liegemen  all, 
In  the  foremost  shock  of  the  battle-strife 

Breaking  my  country's  thrall, 
I'd  welcome  death  from  the  foeman's  steel, 
Breathing  a  prayer  for  old  Scotland's  weal ; 
But  here,  where  no  pitying  heart  is  nigh, 
By  a  loathsome  hand,  it  is  hard  to  die  ; " 

Yet  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine, 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  Time  and  again  have  I  fronted  the  pride 

Of  the  tyrant's  vast  array. 
But  only  to  see,  on  the  crimson  tide. 

My  hopes  swept  far  away. 
Now  a  landless  chief,  and  a  crownless  king, 
On  the  broad,  broad  earth,  not  a  living  thing 
To  keep  me  court,  save  yon  insect  small 
Striving  to  reach  from  wall  to  wall  : " 

For  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine, 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  Work — work  as  a  fool,  as  I  have  done, 
To  the  loss  of  your  time  and  pain — 

The  space  is  too  wide  to  be  bridged  across, 
You  but  waste  your  strength  in  vain." 

And  Bruce,  for  the  moment,  forgot  his  grief, 

His  soul  now  filled  with  the  same  belief, 

That  howsoever  the  issue  went, 

For  evil  or  good  was  the  omen  sent ; 
And  come  there  shadow,  etc. 


As  a  gambler  watches  his  turning  card  15 

On  which  his  all  is  staked ; 
As  a  mother  waits  for  the  hopeful  word 

For  which  h,er  soul  has  ached  ; 
It  was  thus  Bruce  watch'd,  with  every  sense 
Centered  alone  in  that  look  intense  ; 
All  rigid  he  stood  with  unuttered  breath, 
Now  white,  now  red,  but  still  as  death  ; 

Yet  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine, 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

Six  several  times  the  creature  tried, 

When  at  the  seventh' :  "  See — see  1 
He  has  spanned  it  over,"  the  captive  cried, 

"  Lo  !  a  bridge  of  hope  to  me  ; 
Thee,  God,  I  thank — for  this  lesson  here 
Has  tutored  my  soul  to  Persevere  ! " 
And  it  served  him  well,  for  ere  long  he  wore 
In  freedom  the  Scottish  crown  once  more  ; 

And  come  there  shadow,  or  come  there  shine, 

The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

THE  FAIRY  BOY. 

[When  a  beautiful  child  pines  and  dies,  the  Irish  peasant  believes  the  healthy  Infant  has 
been  stolen  by  the  fairies,  and  a  sickly  elf  left  in  its  place.] 

A  MOTHEK  came,  when  stars  were  paling, 

Wailing  'round  a  lonely  spring  ; 
Thus  she  cried  while  tears  were  falling, 

Calling  on  the  Fairy  King  : 

' '  Why  with  spells  my  child  caressing, 

Courting  him  with  fairy  joy  ; 
Why  destroy  a  mother's  blessing, 

Wherefore  steal  my  baby  boy  ? 

"  O'er  the  mountain,  through  the  wild  wood 

Where  his  childhood  loved  to  play  ; 
Where  the  flowers  are  freshly  springing, 
.    There  I  wander,  day  by  day. 

"  There  I  wander,  growing  fonder 

Of  the  child  that  made  my  joy  ; 
On  the  echoes  wildly  calling, 

To  restore  my  fairy  boy. 

"  But  in  vain  my  plaintive  calling, 

Tears  are  falling  all  in  vain  ; 
He  now  sports  with  fairy  pleasure, 

He's  the  treasure  of  their  tram  ! 

F- 

"  Fare  thee  well,  my  child,  forever, 

In  this  world  I've  lost  my  joy,  •» 

But  in  the  next  we  ne'er  shall  seyer, 

Then  I'll  find  my  angel  boy  I " 

U.L 


If  ERIN  GO  BEAGH. 

GHEEN  were  the  fields  where  my  forefathers  dwelt, 

Oh  !  Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh, 
Tho'  our  farm  it  was  small,  yet  comfqrt  we  felt, 
Oh  !  Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 
At  length  came  the  day  when  our  lease  did  expire, 
And  fain  would  I  live  where  before  lived  my  sire, 
But  ah,  well-a-day,  I  was  forced  to  retire  ; 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh. 

Though  all  taxes  I  paid,  yet  no  vote  could  I  pass,  oh 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 

Aggrandized  no  great  man,  and  I  felt  it,  alas,  oh  ! 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 

Forced  from  my  home,  yea,  where  I  was  born, 

To  range  the  wide  world,  poor,  helpless,  forlorn ; 

I  look  back  with  regret,  and  my  heart-strings  are  torn, 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 

"With  principles  pure,  patriotic,  and  firm, 

Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 
Attach'd  to  my  country,  a  friend  to  reform, 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 
I  supported  old  Ireland,  was  ready  to  die  for  it, 
If  her  foes  e'er  prevailed,  I  was  well  known  to  sigh  for  it 
But  my  faith  I  preserved,  and  am  now  forced  to  fly  for  it  • 
Erin,  mavourneen,  slan  laght  go  bragh  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  SARSFIELD. 

[Sarsfield  was  slain  on  July  29.  1693,  at  Landen,  heading  his  countrymen  in  the  van  of 
victory — King  William  flying.  He  could  not  have  died  better.  His  last  thoughts  were  for 
hi*  country.  As  he  lay  on  ihe  field,  unhelmed  and  dying,  he  put  his  hand  to  bis  breast. 
When  he  took  it  away  it  was  full  of  his  best  blood.  Looking  at  it  sadly  with  an  eye  in 
which  victory  shone  a  moment  before,  he  said,  faintly,  "  Oh,  that  this  we're  for  Ireland  !  " 
He  said  no  more  ;  and  history  records  no  nobler  saying,  nor  any  more  becoming  death.] 

SAUSKIELD  has  sailed  from  Limerick  Town, 
He  held  it  long  for  country  and  crown  ; 
And  ere  he  yielded,  the  Saxon  swore 
To  spoil  our  homes  and  our  shrines  no  more. 

Sarsfield  and  all  his  chivalry 

Are  fighting  for  France  in  the  Low  Countries — 

At  his  fiery  charge  the  Saxons  reel, 

They  learned  at  Limerick  to  dread  the  steel. 

Sarsfield  is  dying  on  Landen's  plain  ; 

His  corslet  hath  met  the  ball  in  vain — 

As  his  life-blood  gushes  into  his  hand, 

He  says,  ' '  Oh  !  that  this  was  for  fatherland  I  " 

Sarsfield  is  dead,  yet  no  tears  shed  we — 
For  he  died  in  the  arms  of  Victory. 
And  his  dying  words  shall  edge  the  brand, 
When  we  chase  the  foe  from  our  native  land  1 


HER  BRIGHT   SMILE  HAUNTS  ME  STILL.  17 

'Tis  years  since  last  we  met,  and  we  may  not  meet  again  ; 
I  have  struggled  to  forget,  but  that  struggle  was  in  vain. 
For  her  voice  lives  on  the  breeze,  and  her  spirit  comes  at  will ; 
In  the  midnight  on  the  leas,  her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still. 

At  the  first  sweet  dawn  of  light,  when  I  gaze  upon  the  deep, 
Her  form  still  greets  my  sight,  while  the  stars  their  vigils  keep. 
When  I  close  mine  aching  eyes,  sweet  dreams  my  senses  fill  ; 
And,  from  sleep  when  I  arise,  her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still. 

I  have  sailed  'neath  alien  skies,  I  have  trod  the  desert  path  ; 
I  have  seen  the  storm  arise  like  a  giant  in  his  wrath. 
Every  danger  I  have  known  that  a  reckless  life  can  fill  ; 
Yet  her  presence  is  not  flown,  her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still. 


BRIAN  THE  BRAVE.* 

AIR — "  Molly  Macalpin." 

REMEMBER  the  glories  of  Brian  the  Brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o'er  ; 
Tho'  lost  to  Mononia  f  and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora  J  no  more. 
That  star  of  the  field  which  so  often  has  pourM 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set ; 
But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword, 

To  light  us  to  victory  yet. 

Mononia  !  when  Nature  embellish'd  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 
Did  she  ever  intend  that  a  tyrant  should  print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 
No  !     Freedom,  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 

Go  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 
That  'tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine, 

Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains. 

Forget  not  our  wounded  companions,  who  stood  § 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side ; 
While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blood. 

They  stirr'd  not,  but  conquer'd  and  died. 
That  sun  which  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light, 

Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory's  plain  ; 
Oh  !  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night, 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain. 

*  Brian  Boromhe,  the  great  monarch  of  Ireland,  who  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Clon- 
tarf,  in  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  after  having  defeated  the  Danes  in  twenty- 
five  engagements.  t  Munster.  J  The  palace  of  Brian. 


j  This  alludes  to  an  interesting  circumstance  related  of  the  Dalpais.  the  favorite  troops 
ef  Brian,  when  they  were  interrupted  in  their  return  from  the  battle  of  Clontarf  by  Fitz- 
patrick, Prince  of  Ossory.  The  wounded  men  entreated  that  they  might  be  allowed  to  fight 
with  the  rest.  "  Let  ttakt*,  '  they  said,  "  be  ftuck  In  the  ground,  and  suffer  each  of  us,  tted 
to  and  supported  by  one  of  tht*c  tinke*,  to  be  placed  in  his  rank  by  the  side  of  a  sound  man." 
"  Between^seven  and  eight  hundred  meii  '  adds  O'Halloran,  li  pale,  emaciated,  and  supported 

>st  of  the  troops  .  never  was  sue" 

,  chap.  i. 


ij^i/T^ccii  ocvcn  miu ei^ui  i;ujiuit*u  uieii       QUUB  *j  ill 

in  this  manner,  appeared  mixed  with  the  loremost  of  the  troops     never  was  suck  another 
sight  exhibited."— JH  (orij  of  Inland,  bock  l.'th,  cl 


18  WIDOW  MACHREE. 

WIDOW  MA.CHREE,  it's  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ; 
Faith  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty  black 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
How  altered  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  yoxi  wear — 
'Tis  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free  ; 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  n  >\v  the  summer  is  come, 

Och,  hone  !   Widow  Machree  ; 
When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty  look  glum  ? 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares — 
Why  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish,  Och,  etc. 

Widow  Machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ; 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs, 

Full  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup — Och,  etc. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comfort  I've  towld, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ; 
But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the  cowld, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 
With  such  sins  on  your  head, 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed, 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night  ?    Och,  etc. 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Machree, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ; 
And  with  my  advice,  faith  I  wish  you'd  take  me, 

Och,  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
Tou'd  have  me  to  desire, 
Then  to  sit  by  the  fire, 
And  sure  hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart, 
When  you'd  me  near  your  heart,  Och,  eta 


THE  FOUE-LEAVED   SHAMROCK 

I'LL  seek  a  four-leaved  shamrock 

In  all  tlie  fairy  dells, 
And  if  I  find  the  charmed  leaves, 

Oh,  how  I'll  weave  my  spells. 
I  would  not  waste  my  magic  might 

On  diamond,  pearl,  or  gold  ; 
For  treasures  tire  the  weary  sense — 

Such  triumph  is  but  cold. 
But  I  weuld  play  the  enchanter's  part 

In  casting  bliss  around  : 
Oh  !  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 

Should  in  the  world  be  found, 

Should  in  the  world  be  found. 

To  worth  I  would  give  honor, 

I'd  dry  the  mourner's  tears  ; 
And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall 

The  smile  of  happier  years  ; 
And  hearts  that  had  long  been  estranged, 

And  friends  that  had  grown  cold, 
Should  meet  again  like  parted  streams 

And  mingle  as  of  old. 
Oh  !  thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part, 

Thus  scatter  bliss  around  ; 
And  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 

Should  in  the  world  be  found, 

Should  in  the  world  be  found. 

The  heart  that  had  been  mourning 

O'er  vanished  dreams  of  love, 
Should  see  them  all  returning, 

Like  Noah's  faithful  dove. 
And  Hope  should  launch  her  blessed  bark 

On  Sorrow's  dark'ning  sea, 
And  Mis'ry's  children  have  an  Ark, 

And  saved  from  sinking  be. 
Oh  !  thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part ; 

Thus  scatter  bliss  around, 
And  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 

Should  in  the  world  be  found, 

Should  in  the  world  be  found. 


ERIN  IS  MY  HOME. 


OH,  I  have  roamed  in  many  lands, 

And  many  friends  I've  met, 
Not  one  fair  scene  or  kindly  smile 

Can  this  fond  heart  forget. 
But  I'll  confess  that  I'm  content, 

No  more  I  wish  to  roam  ; 
Oh,  steer  my  bark  for  Erin's  Isle, 

For  Erin  is  my  home. 


If  England  were  my  place  of  birth, 

I'd  love  her  tranquil  shore, 
And  if  Columbia  were  my  home, 

Her  freedom  I'd  adore  ; 
Tho'  pleasant  days  in  both  I've  passed, 

I  dream  of  days  to  come  ; 
Oh,  steer  my  bark  to  Erin's  Isle, 

For  Erin  is  my  home. 


20  THE  BATTLE  OF  FONTENOY. 

THRICE,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  English  column  failed, 
And,  twice,  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  Dutch  in  vain  assailed  * 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks,  and  Dutch  auxiliary. 
As  vainly  through  De  Berri's  wood,  the  British  soldiers  burst. 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished,  and  dispewed, 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to  try. 
On  Fontenoy — on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride  ! 
And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at  eventide. 
Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at  their  head  ; 
Steady  they  step  adown  the  slope — steady  they  climb  the  hill  ; 
Steady  they  load — steady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward  still, 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  though  a  furnace  blast, 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets  showering  fast ; 
And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  'rose  and  kept  their  course, 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hostile  force  : 
Past  Fontenoy — past  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks — 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland's  ocean  banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush  'round  : 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew  the  ground  ; 

Bomb-shell  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on  they  marched  and  fired— 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

"  Push  on,  my  household  cavalry  !  "  King  Louis  madly  cried  ; 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not  unavenged  they  died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — King  Louis  turns  his  rein  : 

"  Not  yet,  my  liege,"  Saxe  interposed,  "  the  Irish  troops  remain  !  " 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a  Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement,  and  true. 

"  Lord  Clare,"  he  says,  "  you  have  your  wish,  there  are  your  Saxon  foes  ! " 

The  marshal  almost  smiled  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes  ! 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who're  wont  to  be  so  gay, 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to-day — 

The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ,  could  dry, 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's  parting  ery- 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  overthrown, 

Each  looks,  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  those  proud  exiles  were. 

O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  commands, 

"Fix  bay'nets!" — "charge!" — like  mountain  storm,  rush  on  these  fiwy 

bands ! 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 
Yet   must'ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a  gallant  show. 
They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle  wind — 
Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam  ;  like  rocks,  the  men  behind  ! 
One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when,  through  the  surging  smokt 
With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish  broke. 
On  Fonten»y,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza  ! 
"Revenge  !  remember  Limerick  !  dash  down  the  Sassenagh  !" 


Like  lions  leaping  at  a  fold,  when  mad  with  hunger's  pang,  21 

Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang  ; 

Bright  was  their  steel,  'tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled  with  gore ; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and  trampled  flags  they  tore  ; 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied,  staggered,  fled— 

The  green  hill-side  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead ; 

Across  the  plain,  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack, 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 

On  Fontenoy — on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 

With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field  is  fought  and  won  ! 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

BY   FATHER   PROUT. 

WITH  deep  affection  and  recollection 

I  often  think  of  those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  'round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder,  where'er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee  ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine  ; 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 

But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine  • 
For  memory  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling  "old  Adrian's  Mole"  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 
Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  kiosko 

In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air,  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom,  I  freely  grant  them, 
But  there's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me  ; 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


22  THE  MACS  AND   THE   O'S. 

WHEK  Ireland  was  founded  by  the  Macs  and  the  O's 
I  never  could  learn,  for  nobody  knows  : 
But  history  says  they  came  over  from  Spain, 
To  visit  old  Granua,  and  there  to  remain  ; 
Our  fathers  were  heroes  for  wisdom  and  fame  • 
For  multiplication  they  practised  the  same  ; 
St.  Patrick  came  over  to  heal  their  complaints, 
And  very  soon  made  them  an  island  of  saints. 

The  harp  and  the  shamrock  were  carried  before 

Brave  Roderick  O'Connor  and  Roger  O'Moore, 

And  the  good  and  bad  deeds  of  the  Macs  and  the  O'» 

And  this  is  the  tale  that  these  verses  disclose. 

Hugh  Neil  of  Tyrone,  O  Donnel,  O'Moore, 

O'Brien,  O'Kelly,  O'Connell  galore, 

All  houses  so  royal,  so  loyal  and  old, 

One  drop  of  their  blood  was  worth  ounces  of  gold. 

McDonnell,  McDougal,  O'Curran,  O'Keefe, 
Sly  Redmond  O'Hanlon,  the  Rapderrey  chief  ; 
O  Maley,  McNally,  O'Sullivan  rare, 
O'Faily,  O'Daily,  O'Purns  of  Kildare  ; 
O'Dougherty,  chief  of  the  Isle  Inishone, 
McGinness,  the  prince  of  the  valleys  of  Down, 
The  Collerans,  Hollerans,  every  one  knows  ; 
The  Raffertys,  Flahertys — they  were  all  O's. 

One-eyed  King  McCormick,  and  great  Phil.  McCool 

McCarty  of  Dermot  and  Tooley  O'Toole, 

Hugh  Neil  the  grand  and  great  Brian  Boru, 

Sir  Tagen  O'Regen  and  Con  Donohue  ; 

O'Hara,  O'Marrah,  O'Conner,  O'Kane, 

O'Carroll,  O'Farrell,  O'Brennan,  O'Drane, 

With  Murtaugh  McDermot,  that  wicked  old  Turkt 

Who  had  a  crim.  con.  with  the  wife  of  O'Rourke. 

McCadden,  McFadden,  McCarron,  McGlone, 
McGarren,  McFarren,  McClarey,  McCoy, 
McHaley,  McClinch,  McElrath,  McElroy  ; 
McMillan,  McClellan,  McGillan,  McFinn, 
McCullagh,  McCunn,  McManus,  McGyn, 
McGinley,  McKinley,  McCaffray,  McKay, 
McCarral,  McFarrell,  McCurchy,  McRay. 

O'Dillon,  O'Dolan,  O'Devlin,  O'Doyle, 
O'Mullen,  O'Nolan,  O'Bolan,  O'Boyle ; 
O'Murray,  O'Rooney,  O'Corney,  O'Kane, 
O'Cary,  O'Leary,  O'Shea  and  O'Shane, 
O'Brien,  O'Rourke,  O'Reilly,  O'Neill, 
O'Hagan,  O'Reagan,  O'Fagan,  O'Sheil ; 
O'Dennis,  O'Dwyer,  O'Blaney,  O'Flynn, 
O'Grady,  O'Shaughnessey,  Brian  O'Lynn. 

The  daughters  of  Erin  are,  Eileen  O'Roone, 
And  Norah  McCushla  and  Shela  McClone, 


With  Kathleen  Mavourneen  and  Mollev  Asthore,  23 

The  beautiful  charmers  we  love  and  adore. 

There  is  Dora  McCushla  and  Widow  McChree  ; 

There  is  Molly  McGuire  and  Biddy  McGee  ; 

There  is  dear  Norah  Creina  and  Shelish  McGrath, 

And  the  mother  of  all  is — sweet  Erin-go-Bragh  t 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

IT  was  on  one  fine  morning  for  soft  recreation, 
I  heard  a  fair  damsel  making  a  sad  moan, 

Sighing  and  sobbing  with  sad  lamentation, 
Saying  my  Blackbird  most  loyal  has  flown. 

My  thoughts  they  deceived  me,  reflection  it  grieves  me, 
And  I  am  o'er-burdened  with  sad  misery  ; 

But  if  death  should  blind  me,  as  true  love  inclines  me, 
My  Blackbird  I'll  seek  out  wherever  I  be. 

Once  in  fair  England  my  Blackbird  did  flourish, 
He  was  the  chief  flower  that  in  it  did  spring, 

Fair  ladies  of  honor  his  person  did  nourish, 
Because  that  he  was  the  true  son  of  a  king. 

But  oh  !  that  false  fortune  has  proved  so  uncertain 
That  caus'd  the  parting  between  you  and  me, 

But  if  he  remain  in  France  or  in  Spain, 
I'll  be  true  to  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be. 

In  England  my  Blackbird  and  I  were  together, 

When  he  was  the  most  noble  and  gen'rous  of  heart 

But  woe  to  the  time  when  he  arrived  there, 
Alas  !  he  was  soon  forced  from  me  to  part. 

In' Italy  he  beam'd  and  was  highly  esteemed, 
In  England  he  seems  but  a  stranger  to  me, 

But  if  he  remain  in  France  or  in  Spain, 
All  blessings  on  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be. 

But  if  by  the  fowler  my  Blackbird  is  taken, 
Sighing  and  sobbing  will  be  all  the  tune, 

But  if  he  is  safe,  and  I'm  not  mistaken, 
1  hope  I  shall  see  him  in  May  or  in  June. 

The  birds  of  the  forest,  they  all  flock  together, 
The  turtle  was  chosen  to  dwell  with  the  dove, 

So  I'm  resolved  in  fair  or  foul  weather, 
Once  in  the  Spring  to  seek  out  my  love. 

Oh,  he  is  all  my  treasure,  my  joy  and  my  pleasure. 
He's  justly  belov'd  though  my  heart  follow  thee, 

How  constant  and  kind,  and  courageous  of  mind, 
Deserving  of  blessing  wherever  he  be. 

It's  not  the  wide  ocean  can  fright  me  with  danger, 
Although  like  a  pilgrim  I  wander  forlorn, 

For  I'll  find  more  friendship  from  one  that's  a  stranger, 
More  than  from  one  that  in  Britain  was  born. 


24 


DIRGE  OF  O'SULLIVAN  BEARE. 


[The  following  dirge  for  O'Snllivan,  translated  from  the  Irish  by  J.  J.  Callantn,  it  un- 
surpassed in  the  vehemence  of  its  maledictions  by  anything  in  the  language.] 


THE  sun  on  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly  ; 
The  voice  of  her  music 

Xo  longer  is  sprightly  ; 
Xo  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling 

O'Sullivan  Beare. 

Scully  !  thou  false  one, 

You  basely  betrayed  him, 
In  his  strong  hour  of  need,        [him. 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid 
He  fed  thee — he  clad  thee — 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee  ; 
You  left  him — you  sold  him — 

May  Heaven  requite  thee  ! 

Scully  !  may  all  kinds 

Of  "evil  attend  thee  ! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee  ! 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee, 

And  agues  long  freeze  thee  ! 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 

In  his  red  anger  seize  thee  ! 

Had  he  died  calmly, 

I  would  not  deplore  him  ; 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea- war  closed  o'er  him  : 
But  with  ropes  'round  his  white  limbs 

Through  oceans  to  trail  him, 
Like  a  fish  after  slaughter, 

'Tis  therefore  I  wail  him. 


Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them  : 
Scully,  that  sold  him, 

And  soldiers  that  slew  him  ! 
One  glimpse  of  Heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never  ! 
May  the  hearth-stone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever  ! 

In  the  hole  which  the  vile  hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee  ; 
Unhonored,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee. 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee, 

No  friend  to  deplore  thee  ! 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee. 

High  spiked  on  their  jail  ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm  ; 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light, 

But  the  flash  of  the  storm  ! 

A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water, 
From  the  haven  of  Cork, 

To  Ivera  of  slaughter  ; 
Since  the  billows  were  dyed 

With  the  red  wounds  of  fear 
Of  Muiertach  Oge, 

Our  O'Sullivan  O'Beare  ! 


YOU'LL  REMEMBER  ME. 


V  HEN  other  lips  and  other  hearts 

Their  tales  of  love  shall  tell, 
In  language  whose  excess  imparts 

The  power  they  feel  so  well  ; 
There  may,  perhaps,  in  such  a  scene, 

Some  recollection  be 
Of  days  that  have  as  happy  been, 

And  vou'll  remember  me. 


When  coldness  or  deceit  shall  slight 

The  beauty  now  they  prize, 
And  deem  it  but  a  faded  light 

Which  beams  within  your  eyes  ; 
When  hollow  hearts  shall  wear  a  mask 

'Twill  break  your  own  to  set — 
In  such  a  moment  I  but  ask 

That  you'll  remember  me. 


KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN.  25 

KATHLKEN,  mavourneen  !  the  gray  dawn  is  breaking, 

The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
The  lark  from  her  light  wing  the  bright  dew  is  shaking, 

Kathleen,  mavourneen,  what,  slumb'ring  still  ? 
Ah  !  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must  sever  ? 

Oh  !  hast  thou  forgotten  this  day  we  must  part  ? 
It  may  be  for  years   and  it  may  be  forever. 

Oh  !  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart  ? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever ; 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen,  mavourneen  ? 

Kathleen,  mavourneen  !  awake  from  thy  slumbers, 

The  blue  mountains  glow  in  the  sun's  golden  light  ; 
Ah  !  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on  my  numbers  ? 

Arise,  in  thy  beauty,  thou  star  of  my  night. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen,  my  sad  tears  are  falling, 

To  think  that  from  Erin  and  thee  I  must  part, 
It  may  be  for  years  and  it  may  be  forever, 

Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever  ; 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen,  m-ivourneen  ? 


THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

J.    J.    CALLANAN. 

Irish  Jacobite  Song. 

PRINCE  CHARLES  he  is  King  James's  son 
And  from  a  royal  line  he  sprung  ; 
Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade, 
And  we'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 
O  !  my  dear,  my  t'air-hair'd  youth, 
Thou  yet  hast  hearts  of  fire  and  truth  : 
Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 
We'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 

My  young  men's  hearts  are  dark  with  woe  ; 
On  my  virgins'  cheeks  the  grief-drops  flow  ; 
The  sun  scarce  lights  the  sorrowing  day, 
Since  our  rightful  prince  went  far  away. 
He's  gone,  the  stranger  holds  his  throne  ; 
The  royal  bird  far  off  is  flown  : 
But  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 
We'll  stand  or  fall  with  the  white  cockade. 

No  more  the  cuckoo  hails  the  spring, 
The  woods  no  more  with  staunch  hounds  ring  ; 
The  song  from  the  glen  so  sweet  before 
Is;  hush 'd  since  Charles  has  left  our  shore  ; 
The  Prince  is  gone  :  but  he  soon  will  come, 
With  trumpet-sound,  and  with  beat  of  drum  ; 
Then  up  with  the  shout  and  out  with  the  blade — 
Huzza  for  the  right  and  the  white  cockade. 


26  KITTY  TYRRELL. 

Yor'BE  looking  as  fresh  as  the  morn,  darling 

You're  looking  as  bright  as  the  day  ; 
But  while  on  your  charms  I'm  dilating, 

You're  stealing  my  poor  heart  away. 
But  keep  it  and  welcome,  mavourneen, 

Its  loss  I'm  not  going  to  mourn  ; 
Yet  one  heart's  enough  for  a  body, 

So  pray  give  me  yours  in  return. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

O  !  pray  give  me  yours  in  return. 

I've  built  me  a  neat  little  cot,  darling, 

I've  pigs  and  potatoes  in  store  ; 
I've  twenty  good  pounds  in  the  bank,  love. 

And  may  be,  a  pound  or  two  more. 
It's  all  very  well  to  have  riches, 

But  I'm  such  a  covetous  elf, 
I  can't  help  still  sighing  for  something, 

And,  darling,  that  something's  yourself. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

And  that  something,  you  know,  is  yourself. 

You're  smiling,  and  that's  a  good  sign,  darling, 

Say  "yes,"  and  you'll  never  repent, 
Or,  if  you  would  rather  be  silent, 

Your  silence  I'll  take  for  consent. 
That  good  natured  dimple's  a  tell-tale, 

Now  all  that  I  have  is  your  own  ; 
This  week  you  may  be  Kitty  Tyrrell, 

Next  week  you'll  be  Mistress  Malone. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

You'll  be  my  own  Mistress  Malone. 


AM  I  NOT  FONDLY  THINE  OWN 

THOU,  thou  reign'st  in  this  bosom, 
There,  there,  hast  thou  thy  throne  ; 

Thou,  thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee — 
Am  I  nat  fondly  thine  own? 
Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  am  I  not  fondly  thine  CTO  ? 

Then,  then,  e'en  as  I  love  thee, 

Say,  say,  wilt  thou  love  me  ? 
Thoughts,  thoughts,  tender  and  true,  love, 

Say,  wilt  thou  cherish  for  me  ? 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  say,  wilt  thou  cherish  fo.  nc 

Speak,  speak,  love,  I  implore  thee, 

Say,  say,  hope  shall  be  thine, 
Thou,  thou  know'st  that  I  love  thee, 

Say  but  that  thou  wilt  be  mine  ! 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  say  but  thou  wili  bo  — T—  j 


THE  DEAR  LITTLE  SHAMROCK  OF  IRELAND. 

BY   ANDREW   CHERRY. 

THERE'S  a  dear  little  plant  that  grows  in  our  isle, 

'Twas  Saint  Patrick  himself,  sure,  that  set  it  ; 

And  the  sun  on  his  labor  with  pleasure  did  smile, 

And  with  dew  from  his  eye  often  wet  it! 

It  thrives  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through  the  mireland  : 
And  he  called  it  the  dear  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

The  sweet  little  Shamrock,  the  dear  little  Shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin, 
Whose  smiles  can  bewitch,  whose  eyes  can  command, 

In  each  climate  that  they  may  appear  in  ; 

And  shine  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through  the  mireland ; 
Jusf  like  their  own  dear  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

The  sweet  iittle  Shamrock,  the  dear  little  Shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended, 
Denotes  from  one  stalk  we  together  should  toil, 

And  ourselves  by  ourselves  be  befriended  ; 

And  still  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through  the  mireland, 
From  one  root  should  branch,  like  the  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 
The  sweet  little  Shamrock,  the  dear  little  Shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 


THE  BOYS  OF  KILKENNY. 

OH,  the  boys  of  Kilkenny  are  brave  roaring  blades. 

And  if  ever  they  meet  with  the  nice  little  maids. 

They'll  kiss  them  and  coax  them,  and  spend  their  money  free, 

Of  all  the  towns  of  Ireland,  Kilkenny  for  me. 

In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  runs  a  clear  stream, 
In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  lives  a  pretty  dame, 
Her  lips  are  like  roses  and  her  mouth  much  the  same- 
Like  a  dish  of  fresh  strawberries  smothered  in  cream. 

Her  eyes  are  as  black  as  Kilkenny's  large  coal, 
Which  through  my  bosom  has  burnt  a  large  hole  ; 
Her  mind,  like  its  river,  is  mild,  clear,  and  pure, 
But  her  heart  is  more  hard  than  its  marble,  I'm  sure. 

Kilkenny's  a  pretty  town,  and  shines  where  it  stands, 
And  the  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  my  heart  warms ; 
If  I  was  at  Kilkenny,  I  should  then  be  at  home, 
For  there  I  got  sweethearts,  but  here  can  get  none. 

I'll  build  my  love  a  castle  on  Kilkenny's  free  ground, 
Neither  lords,  dukes,  nor  squires  shall  ever  pull  it  down  ; 
And  if  any  one  should  ask  you  to  tell  him  my  name, 
I  am  an  Irish  exile,  and  from  Kilkenny  I  came. 


RORY  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  THAT  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  ? 
The  handle,  of  the  best  of  ash, 

Is  smooth,  and  straight,  and  strong  ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me, 

Why  did  my  father  frown, 
When  to  make  the  hay  in  summer  time 

I  climbed  to  take  it  down  ?  " 
She  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill  ; 
"  You'll  shortly  know  the  reason,  boy  !" 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lighting  up 

The  slopes  of  Sliev-na-mon — 
Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 

So  long  before  the  dawn  ? 
He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner's  stream 

Winds  up  the  woods  anear, 
Then  whistled  low,  and  looked  around 

To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 
A  sheeling  door  flew  open — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good  will — 
"God  save  all  here,  and  bless  your  work," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 

That  greeted  him,  I  ween, 
For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 

How  well  he  loved  the  Green  ; 
And  there  was  one  among  them 

Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand — 
One  who,  through  all  that  weary  time, 

Roamed  on  a  foreign  strand — 
He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 

That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill ; 
"  My  soul !  I  never  doubted  them  !" 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board 

Till  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  yet  not  song  or  shout  I  heard — 

No  revellers  were  they  ; 
Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

While  some  were  grimly  pale  ; 
But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 

Flashed  souls  that  never  quail ! 
"  And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow, 

They  swore  for  to  fulfill — " 
"  Ye'll  read  it  yet  in  history," 

Said  Rory  of*  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle, 

He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 


The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfullj. 

Into  the  fire  he  flung. 
And  in  its  stead  a  shining  blade 

Is  gleaming  once  again, 
(Oh  !  for  a  hundred  thousand  of 

Such  weapons  and  such  men  !) 
Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And  going  through  his  drill — 
"  Attention  " — "  charge  " — "  front  point " — "  advance  ! ' 

Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears  ; 
She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears  ; 
He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly, 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine — 
"Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine." 
He  swung  his  first-born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill — 
"  You'll  be  a  FREEMAN  yet,  my  boy," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Oh  !  knowledge  is  a  wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind  ; 
And  thrones  shall  fall  and  despots  bow 

Before  the  might  of  mind  ; 
The  poet  and  the  orator 

The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 
And  would  to  the  kind  Heavens 

That  Wolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day  ! 
Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength, 

Her  truest  strength,  is  still 
The  rough-and-ready  roving  boys, 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


MOLLY  BAWN. 

O  MOLLY  BAWN,  why  leave  me  pining 

Or  lonely  waiting  here  for  you — 
While  the  stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 

Because  they  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  flowers  late  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you, 
But  their  mother,  Nature,  kept  them  sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  wash'd  in  dew. 

The  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom,  dear, 

And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine  , 
The  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys,  d^ar, 

And  may  be  you  were  made  for  mine. 
The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling — 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  d'ye  see  ? 
For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly,  darling, 

And  then  transported  I  should  be. 


30  THE  GREEN  ABOVE  THE  RED. 

BY  THOMAS  DAVIS. 

AIR — ' '  Irish  Molly  0  !  " 

FULL  often  when  our  fathers  saw  the  Red  above  the  Green, 
They  'rose  in  rude  but  fierce  array,  with  saber,  pike  and  skian, 
And  over  many  a  noble  town,  and  many  a  field  of  dead, 
They  proudly  set  the  Irish  Green  above  the  English  Red. 

But  in  the  end,  throughout  the  land,  the  shameful  sight  was  seen— 
The  English  Red  in  triumph  high  above  the  Irish  Green  ; 
But  well  they  died  in  breach  and  field,  who,  as  their  spirits  fled, 
Still  saw  the  Green  maintain  its  place  above  the  English  Red. 

And  they  who  saw,  in  after  times,  the  Red  above  the  Green, 
Were  withered  as  the  grass  that  dies  beneath  a  forest  screen  ; 
Yet  often  by  this  healthy  hope  their  sinking  hearts  were  fed. 
That,  in  some  day  to  come,  the  Green  should  flutter  o'er  the  Red. 

Sure  'twas  for  this  Lord  Edward  died,  and  Wolfe  Tone  sunk  serene 
Because  they  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Red  above  the  Green  ; 
And  'twas  for  this  that  Owen  fought,  and  Sarsfield  nobly  bled — 
Because  their  eyes  were  hot  to  see  the  Green  above  the  Red. 

So,  when  the  strife  began  again,  our  darling  Irish  Green 
Was  down  upon  the  earth,  while  high  the  English  Red  was  seen  ; 
Yet  still  we  held  our  fearless  course,  for  something  in  us  said  : 
"Before  the  strife  is  o'er  you'll  see  the  Green  above  the  Red." 

And  'tis  for  this  we  think  and  toil,  and  knowledge  strive  to  glean, 
That  we  may  pull  the  English  Red  below  the  Irish  Green, 
And  leave  our  sons  sweet  Liberty  and  smiling  plenty  spread, 
Above  the  land  once  dark  with  blood — the  Green  above  the  Red. 

The  jealous  English  tyrant  now  has  bann'd  the  Irish  Green, 
And  forced  us  to  conceal  it  like  a  something  foul  and  mean  ; 
But  yet,  by  Heavens  !  he'll  sooner  raise  his  victims  from  the  dead 
Than  force  our  hearts  to  leave  the  Green  and  cotton  to  the  Red. 

We'll  trust  ourselves,  for  God  is  good,  and  blesses  those  who 
On  their  brave  hearts,  and  not  upon  an  earthly  king  or  queen  ; 
And  freely  as  we  lift  our  hands,  we  vow  our  blood  to  shed 
Once  and  forever  more  to  raise  the  Green  above  the  Red  ! 


THE  HEART  BOWED  DOWN  BY  WEIGHT  OF  WOE. 

THE  heart  bow'd  down  by  weight  of  woe, 

To  weakest  hope  will  cling  ; 
To  thought  and  impulse  while  they  flow, 

That  can  no  comfort  bring, 
With  those  exciting  scenes  will  blend 

O'er  pleasure's  pathway  thrown, 
But  mem'ry  is  the  only  friend 

That  grief  can  call  his  own. 


The  mind  will,  in  its  worst  despair,  31 

Still  ponder  o'er  the  past, 
On  moments  of  delight  that  were 

Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
To  long  departed  years  extend 

Its  visions  with  them  flown  : 
For  memory  is  the  only  friend 

That  grief  can  call  its  own.  N.  W.  BALPE. 


THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  raiment  was  heavy  and  chill  ; 
For  his  country  he  sighed  when  at  twilight  repairing. 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
But  the  day  star  attracted  his  eyes'  sad  devotion, 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 
Where  oft  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  ERIN  GO  BRAGH. 

"  Oh,  sad  is  my  fate,"  said  the  heart-broken  stranger, 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee  ; 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger. 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
Ah  !  never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
Where  my  forefathers  liv'd  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  ERIN  GO  BRAGH. 

"  Erin,  my  country,  though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore, 
But  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more. 
Oh  !  cruel  fate,  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of  peace  where  no  perils  can  chase  me ': 
Ah  !  never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me — 

They  died  to  defend,  or  lived  to  deplore. 

"  Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood? 

Sisters  and  sires,  did  you  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom  friend  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh  !  my  sad  heart,  long  abandoned  by  pleasure^ 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure, 
Tears  like  the  rain-drop  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

"  Yet  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw — 
Erin,  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing, 

Land  of  my  forefathers,  ERIN  GO  BRAGH. 
Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 
Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  Isle  of  the  ocean, 
And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  emotion, 

ERIN,  MAVOURNEEN  !   ERIN  GO  BRAGH  !    THOS.  CAMPBELL. 


38  THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER. 

[A  superstition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland,  that,  when  a  chiM  smiles  in  its  deep, 
it  ie  "  talking  with  angels."] 

A  BABY  was  sleeping,  its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild,  raging  sea, 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling  'round  the  fisherman's  dwelling—- 
And she  cried  :  "  Dermot,  darling,  oh  !  come  back  tome  \" 

Her  beads  while  she  number'd  the  baby  still  slumber'd, 

And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee  ; 
"  Oil  !  blest  be  that  warning,  my  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

"  And  while  they  are  keeping  bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 

Oh  !  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me — 
And  say  thou  would'st  rather  they'd  watch  o'er  thy  father, 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. " 

The  dawn  of  the  morning  saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see  ; — 

And  closely  caressing  her  child  with  a  blessing. 

Said  :  "I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee 


DUBLIN  BAY. 

BY  MR8.   CRAWFORD. 

HE  sail'd  away  in  a  gallant  bark, 

Roy  Neill  and  his  fair  young  bride, 
He  had  ventur'd  all  in  that  bounding  ark 

That  danced  orer  the  silver  tide. 
But  his  heart  was  young  and  his  spirit  light, 

And  he  dashed  the  tear  away, 
As  he  watched  the  shore  recede  from  sight, 

Of  his  own  sweet  Dublin  Bay. 

Three  days  they  sail'd,  and  a  storm  arose, 

And  the  lightning  swept  the  deep, ' 
And  the  thunder-crash  broke  the  short  repose 

Of  the  weary  sea-boy's  sleep. 
Roy  Neill,  he  clasped  his  weeping  bride, 

And  he  kiss'd  her  tears  away, 
"Oh,  love,  'twas  a  fatal  hour,"  she  cried, 

"  When  we  left  sweet  Dublin  Bay." 

On  the  crowded  deck  of  the  doomed  ship 

Some  stood  in  their  mute  despair, 
And  some,  more  calm,  with  a  holy  lip, 

Sought  the  God  of  the  storm  in  prayer. 
*'  She  has  struck  on  the  rock  !"  the  seamen  cried, 

In  the  breath  of  their  wild  dismay, 
And  the  ship  went  down  and  the  fair  young  bride 

That  sailed  from  Dublin  Bay. 


SHAMUS   O'BRIEN,   THE  BOLD  BOY  OF  GLINGALL.     33 

A   Tale  of  Ninety -Eight. 

BY  SAMUEL  LOVER. 

JlST  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  '98, 

As  soon  as  the  boys  wor  all  scattered  and  bate, 

'Twa«  the  custom,  whenever  a  peasant  was  got, 

To  hang  him  by  thrial — barrin'  sich  as  was  shot. 

There  was  trial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  daylight, 

And  the  martial-law  hangin'  the  lavins  by  night ; 

It's  them  was  hard  times  f.»r  an  honest  gossoon, 

If  he  missed  in  the  judges — he'd  meet  a  dragoon  ; 

An'  whether  the  sodgers  or  judges  gev  sentence, 

The  divil  a  much  time  they  allowed  for  repentance  ; 

An'  it's  many's  the  fine  boy  was  then  on  his  keepin' 

Wfd  small  share  iv  restin',  or  aitin',  or  sleepin'. 

An'  because  they,  loved  Erin,  an'  scorned  to  sell  it, 

A  prey  for  the  bloodhound,  a  mark  for  the  bullet. 

Unsheltered  by  night,  and  unrested  by  day, 

With  the  heath  for  their  barracks,  revenge  for  their  pay. 

An'  the  bravest  an'  hardiest  boy  iv  them  all 

Was  Shamus  O'Brien,  from  the  town  of  Glingall. 

His  limbs  were  well  set,  an'  his  body  was  light, 

And  the  keen-fanged  hound  had  not  teeth  half  so  white. 

But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead, 

An'  his  cheek  never  wanned  with  the  blush  of  tne  red  ; 

An'  for  all  that  he  was  an  ugly  young  b'y, 

For  the  divil  himself  couldn't  blaze  with  his  eye, 

So  droll  an'  so  wicket,  so  dark  an'  so  bright, 

Like  a  fire  flash  that  crossed  the  depths  of  the  night ! 

An'  he  was  the  best  mower  that  ever  has  been, 

An'  the  illigamest  hurler  that  ever  was  seen, 

An'  his  dancin'  was  sich  that  the  men  used  to  stare, 

An'  the  women  turn  crazy,  he  done  it  so  quare, 

An'  by  gorra,  the  whole  world  giv  it  into  him  there. 

An'  it's  he  was  the  b'y  that  was  hard  to  be  caught, 

An'  it's  often  he  run,  an'  it's  often  he  fought, 

An'  it's  many  the  one  can  remember  right  well 

The  quare  things  he  done  ;  and  it's  oft  I  heard  tell 

How  he  lathered  the  yeomen,  himself  agin'  four, 

An'  stretched  the  two  strongest  on  old  Galtimore. 

But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must  rest 

An'  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  iv  the  best  ; 

Afther  many  a  brave  action  of  power  and  pride, 

An'  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side, 

An'  a  thousand  great  dangers  and  toils  overpast, 

In  the  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 

Now,  Shamus,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 

For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon, 

An'  take  your  last  look  at  her  dim  lovely  light, 

That  falls  on  the  mountain  and  valley  this  night ; 

One  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  flood, 

An'  one  at  the  sheltering,  far  distant  wood  ; 

Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 


34        An'  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  think  of  you  still ; 
Farewell  to  the  pathern,  the  hurlin'  an'  wake, 
An'  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake. 
An'  twelve  sodgers  brought  him  to  Maryborough  jail, 
An'  the  turnkey  resaved  him,  refusin'  all  bail ; 
The  fleet  limbs  wor  chained,  an'  the  strong  hands  wor  bound* 
An'  he  laid  down  his  length  on  the  cowld  prison  ground  ; 
An'  the  dreams  of  his  childhood  came  over  him  there 
As  gentle  an'  soft  as  the  sweet  summer  air  ; 
An'  happy  remembrances  crowding  on  ever, 
As  fast  as  the  foam-flakes  dhrift  down  on  the  river, 
Bringing  fresh  to  his  heart  merry  days  long  gone  by, 
Till  the  tears  gathered  heavy  and  thick  in  his  eye. 
But  the  tears  didn't  fall,  for  the  pride  of  his  heart 
Would  not  suffer  one  drop  down  his  pale  cheek  to  start ; 
An'  he  sprung  to  his  feet  in  his  dark  prison  cave, 
An'  swore  with  the  fierceness  that  misery  gave, 
By  the  hopes  of  the  good,  an'  the  cause  of  the  brave, 
That  when  he  was  mouldering  in  the  cold  grave 
His  enemies  should  never  have  it  to  boast 
His  scorn  of  their  vengeance  one  moment  was  lost ; 
His  bosom  might  bleed,  but  his  cheek  would  be  dhry  ; 
For  undaunted  he  lived,  and  undaunted  he'd  die. 
Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  were  over  and  gone, 
The  terrible  day  iv  the  thrial  kem  on  ; 
There  was  sich  a  crowd  there  was  scarce  room  to  stand, 
An'  sodgers  on  guard,  and  dhra.goons  sword-in-hand 
An'  the  court-house  so  full  that  the  people  were  bothered. 
An'  attorneys  an'  criers  on  the  point  iv  bein'  smothered ; 
An'  counsellors  almost  gev  over  for  dead, 
An'  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  their  box  overhead  ; 
An'  the  judge  settled  out  so  detarmined  and  big, 
With  his  gown  on  his  back,  and  an  illegant  new  wig  ; 
An'  silence  was  called,  an'  the  minute  it  was  said, 
The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead, 
An'  they  heard  but  the  openiu'  of  one  prison  lock, 
An'  Sham  us  O'Brien  came  into  the  dock. 
For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  'round  on  the  throng, 
An'  he  looked  at  the  bars  so  firm  and  strong, 
An'  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 
A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend  ; 
An'  he  folded  his  arms  as  be  stood  there  alone, 
As  calm  an'  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone  ; 
An'  they  read  a  big  writin'.  a  yard  long  at  laste, 
An'  Jim  didn't  understand  it,  or  mind  it  a  taste, 
An'  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  iv  snuff,  and  he  says, 
"Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  av  you  pl'aseV" 
An  all  held  their  breath  in  the  silence  of  dhread, 
An'  Shamus  O'Brien  made  answer  and  said  : 
"  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me  if  in  7ny  life-time 
t  thought  any  treason,  or  did  any  crime 
That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here, 
The  hot  blush  of  shame  or  coldness  of  fear, 
Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death-blow. 


Before  God  and  the  world  I  would  answer  you,  no  ! 

But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like, 

If  in  the  rebellion  I  carried  a  pike, 

An'  fought  for  ould  Ireland  from  the  first  to  the  close, 

AJ'  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes, 

1  answer  you,  yes,  and  I  tell  you  again, 

Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  its  my  glory  that  then 

In  her  cause  I  was  willing  that  my  veins  should  run  dry, 

An'  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die." 

Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright, 

An'  the  judge  wasn't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light  ; 

By  my  sowl,  it's  himself  was  the  crabbed  ould  cliap  ! 

In  a  twinklin'  he  pulled  on  his  ugly  black  cap. 

Then  Shamus'  mother  in  the  crowd  standin'  by. 

Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry  : 

"0,  judge,  darlin',  don't,  O,  don't  say  the  word  ! 

The  crathur  is  young,  have  mercy,  my  lord, 

He  was  foolish,  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doin'  ; 

You  don't  know  him,  my  lord — O,  don't  give  him  to  ruin  ; 

He's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tendherest-hearted, 

Don't  part  us  forever,  we  that's  so  long  parted. 

Judge,  mavourneen,  forgive  him,  forgive  him,  my  lord 

An'  God  will  forgive  you — 0,  don't  say  the  word  ! " 

That  was  the  first  minute  that  O'Brien  was  shaken, 

When  he  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  forgot  or  forsaken  ; 

An'  down  his  pale  cheeks,  at  the  words  of  his  mother, 

The  big  tears  wor  runnin'  fast,  one  after  th'  other  ; 

An'  two  or  three  times  he  endeavored  to  spake, 

But  the  sthrong  manly  voice  used  to  falther  and  break  ; 

But  at  last  by  the  strength  of  his  high  mounted  pride, 

He  conquered  and  masthered  his  grief's  swelling  tide  ; 

"  An,  "  said  he,   "  mother,  darlin',  don't  break  your  podr  heart 

For,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part ; 

An'  God  knows  it's  betther  than  Avandering  in  fear 

On  the  bleak,  trackless  mountain,  among  the  wild  deer 

To  lie  in  the  grave,  where  the  head,  heart  and  breast, 

From  thought,  labor,  and  sorrow,  forever  shall  rest. 

Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  cry  any  more, 

Don't  make  me  seem  broken  in  this,  my  last  hour  ; 

For  I  wish,  when  my  head's  lying  undher  the  raven, 

No  true  man  can  say  I  died  like  a  craven  !" 

Then  towards  the  judge  Shamus  bent  down  his  head, 

An'  that  minute  the  solemn  death-sentence  was  said. 

The  mornin'  was  bright,  an'  the  mists  rose  on  Ligh, 

An  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky  ; 

But  why  are  the  men  standin'  idle  so  late  ? 

An'  why  do  the  crowds  gather  so  fast  in  the  strate  ? 

What  come  they  to  talk  of  ?     What  come  they  to  see  ? 

An'  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  tree? 

O,  Shamus  O'Brien  !  pray  fervent  and  fast, 

May  the  Saints  take  your  soul,  for  this  day  is  your  last  ; 

Pray  fast  an'  pray  sthrong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh 

When,  strong,  proud  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  must  die. 

An'  fasther  an'  fasther,  the  crowd  gathered  there, 


36       Boys,  horses  an  gingerbread,  just  like  a  fair ; 
An'  whiskey  was  sellin',  and  cussamuck,  too, 
An'  ould  men  and  young  women  enjoying  the  view, 
An'  ould  Tim  Mulvany,  he  med  the  remark, 
There  wasn't  sich  a  sight  since  the  time  of  Noah's  ark  ; 
An'  begorry  'twas  thrue  for  him,  for  divil  sich  a  scruge, 
Sich  divarshin  an'  crowds,  was  known  since  the  deluge  ; 
For  thousands  were  gathered  there,  if  there  was  one, 
Waitin'  till  sich  time  as  the  hangin'  id  come  on. 
At  last  they  threw  open  the  big  prison  gate, 
An'  out  came  the  sheriffs  an'  sodgers  in  state, 
An'  a  cart  in  the  middle,  an'  Shamus  was  in  it, 
Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  ever  that  minute. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shamus  O'Brien, 
Wid  prayin'  an'  blessin',  and  all  the  girls  cryin', 
A  wild,  wailin'  sound  Item  on  by  degrees, 
Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  blowin'  through  trees. 
On — on  to  the  gallows  the  sheriffs  are  gone, 
An'  the  cart  an'  the  sodgers  go  steadily  on  ; 
An'  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 
A  wild,  sorrowful  sound  that  id  open  your  heart  ; 
Now  undher  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand, 
An'  the  hangman  gets  up  wid  the  rope  in  his  hand  ; 
An'  the  priest  havin'  blessed,  goes  down  on  the  ground, 
An'  Shamus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  look  around. 
Then  the  hangman  dhrew  near,  an'  the  people  grew  still, 
Young  faces  turned  sickly,  and  warm  hearts  turned  chill ; 
An'  the  rope  bein'  ready,  his  neck  was  made  bare, 
For  the  gripe  iv  the  life-strangling  cord  to  prepare  ; 
An'  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  havin'  said  his  last  prayer. 
But  the  good  priest  done  more,  for  his  hands  he  unbound, 
And  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the  ground  ; 
Bang — bang  !  go  the  carbines,  and  clash  !  go  the  sabers  ; 
He's  not  down  !  he's  alive  still  !  now  stand  to  him,  neighbors 
Through  the  smoke  and  the  horses  he's  into  the  crowd, 
By  the  Heavens  he's  free  ! — then  thunder,  more  loud, 
By  one  shout  from  the  people  the  heavens  are  shaken, 
One  shout  from  the  world  that  the  dead  might  awaken. 
The  sodgers  ran  this  way,  the  sheriffs  ran  that, 
An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat ; 
To-night  he'll  be  sleepin'  in  Aherloe  Glin, 
And  the  divils  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  ag'in. 
Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  go  bang, 
But  if  you  want  hangin',  it's  yourself  you  must  hang. 
He  has  mounted  his  horse,  and  soon  he  will  be 
In  America,  darlint,  the  land  of  the  free. 


OPT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT.  J7 

Scotch  Air. 

OFT,  in  the  stilly  night,  When  I  remember  all 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me,  The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 

Fond  mem'ry  brings  the  light  I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Of  other  days  around  me  ;  Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather  ; 

The  smiles,  the  tears  I  feel  like  one, 

Of  boyhood's  years,  Who  treads  alone 

The  words  of  love  then  spoken  Some  banquet  liall  deserted, 

The  eyes  that  shone,  Whose  lights  are  fled, 

Now  dimm'd  and  gone,  Whose  garland's  dead, 

The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken.  And  all,  but  he,  departed  I 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night,  Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me,  Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  010, 

Sad  mem'ry  brings  the  light  Sad  mem'ry  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me.  Of  other  days  around  me. 


WHY  DON'T  YOU  COME  HOME? 

OH  !  sweet  is  the  smile  of  the  beautiful  morn, 

As  it  peeps  through  the  curtain  of  night, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  singing  his  tune, 

While  the  stars  seem  to  smile  with  delight. 
Old  nature  now  lingers  in  silent  repose, 

And  the  sweet  breath  of  summer  is  calm, 
While  I  sit  and  wonder  if  Shamus  e'er  knows 

How  sad  and  unhappy  I  am  ! 

CHORUS. 
Oh  !  Shamus  O'Brien,  why  don't  you  come  home, 

You  don't  know  how  happy  I'll  be  ; 
I've  but  one  darling  wish,  and  that  is  that  you'd  come 

And  forever  be  happy  with  me  ! 

I'll  smile  when  you  smile,  and  I'll  weep  when  you  weep, 

I'll  give  you  a  kiss  for  a  kiss, 
And  all  the  fond  vows  that  I've  made  you,  I'll  keep — 

What  more  can  I  promise  than  this  V 
Does  the  sea  have  such  bright  and  such  beautiful  charms 

That  your  heart  will  not  leave  it  for  me  ? 
Oh  !  why  did  I  let  you  go  out  of  my  arms, 

Like  a  bird  that  was  caged  and  is  free  ! 

Oh  !  Shamus  O'Brien,  ete. 

Ch  1  Shamus  O'Brien,  I'm  loving  you  yet, 

And  my  heart  is  still  trusting  and  kind  : 
It  was  you  who  first  took  it,  and  can  you  forget 

That  love  for  another  you'd  find  ? 
No  !  no  !  if  you  break  it  with  sorrow  and  pain, 

I'll  then  have  a  duty  to  do  ; 
Jf  you'll  bring  it  to  me,  I'll  mend  it  again, 

And  trust  it,  dear  Shamus,  to  you. 

Oh  !  Shamus  O'Briea,  etc. 


38 


LIMERICK  IS  BEAUTIFUL. 


LIMERICK  is  beautiful, 

As  everybody  knows, 
The  river  Shannon,  full  of  fish, 

Through  that  city  flows  ; 
But  'tis  not  the  river  or  the  fish, 

That  weighs  upon  my  mind, 
Nor  with  the  town  of  Limerick 

I've  any  fault  to  find. 

Ochone,  ochone, 

The  girl  I  love  is  beautiful, 

And  soft-eyed  as  the  fawn, 
She  lives  in  Garry o wen, 

And  is  called  the  Colleen  Bawn. 
And  proudly  as  that  river  flows 

Through  that  famed  city, 
As  proudly  and  without  a  word 

That  colleen  goes  by  me. 

Ochone,  ochone. 


If  I  was  made  the  Emperor 

Of  Russia  to  command, 
Or  Julius  Caesar,  or  the 

Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  land, 
I'd  give  my  plate  and  golden  store, 

I'd  give  up  my  army, 
The  horses,  the  rifles,  and  the  foet, 

And  the  Royal  Artillery. 

Ochone,  ochone. 

I'd  give  the  crown  from  off  my  head, 

My  people  on  their  knees  ; 
I'd  give  the  fleet  of  sailing  ships 

Upon  the  briny  seas  ; 
A  beggar  I  would  go  to  bed, 

And  happy  rise  at  dawn, — 
If  by  my  side  for  my  sweet  brid« 

I  had  found  my  Colleen  Bawn. 
Ochone,  ochone. 


ACUSHLA  GAL  MACHREE. 

BY  MICHAEL   DOHENY. 

THE  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come 

But  come,  asthore,  in  vain, 
And  left  thee  but  the  Wailing  hum 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pain  : 
My  light  of  life,  my  only  love, 

Thy  portion  sure  must  be 
Man's  scorn  below,  God's  wrath  above— 

Acushla  gal  machree. 

'Twas  told  of  thee  the  world  around, 

Was  hoped  for  thee  by  all, 
That  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound 

Thou'd  burst  long  ages'  thrall ; 
Thy  fate  was  tried,  alas  !  and  those 

Who  perilled  all  for  thee 
Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes, 

Acushla  gal  machree. 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  isle, 

That  e'en  the  trusted  few 
Should  pay  thee  back  with  fraud  and  guile 

When  most  they  should  be  true  ? 
'Twas  not  thy  strength  or  courage  failed 

Nor  those  whose  souls  were  free  ; 
By  moral  force  wert  thou  betrayed, 

Acushla  gal  machree. 

I've  given  thee  my  youth  and  prime,; 
And  manhood's  waning  years  ; 


Fve  blest  thee  in  thy  sunniest  time. 
And  shed  for  thee  my  tears  ; 

And,  mother,  tho'  thou'st  cast  away 
The  child  who'd  die  for  thee, 

My  fondest  wish  is  still  to  pray — 
For  'cushla  gal  machree. 


FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP. 

AIR — "New  Langolee." 

DEAR  harp  of  my  country,  in  darkness  I  found  the«, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long, 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp  !  I  unbound  thee, 
And  gave  all  my  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song  I 

The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 
Have  waken'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thril]  ; 

But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 
That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  me  stilL 

Dear  harp  of  my  country  1  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
The  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine ; 

Go — sleep,  with  the  sunshine  of  fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 

If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 
Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone  ; 

I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over. 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  wak'd  was  thv  own. 


AILEEN. 

Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go,  And  I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame  ;  And  woo  ic  o'er  and  o'er, 

Tho'  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow,  And  tempt  a  wave,  and  try  a  fat* 

And  I  may  win  a  name,  Upon  a  stranger  shore, 

Ailleen,  Ailleen, 

And  I  may  win  a  name.  Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go,  Oh  !  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame,  I  know  a  heart  will  care  1 

That  they  may  deck  another  brow.  Oh  1  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

And  bless  another  name,  I  know  a  brow  shall  wear, 

Ailleen,  Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name.  I  know  a  brow  shall  wear  ! 

For  this,  but  this,  I  go — for  this  And  when  with  both  returned  again, 

I  lose  thy  love  a  while  ;  My  native  land  to  see, 

And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss  I  know  a  smile  will  meet  me  there, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile,  And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 

Ailleen,  Aille«n, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile.  And  a  hand  will  welcome  me  ! 


SONG  OP  THE  IRISH  EXILE. 

ALONE,  all  alone,  by  the  wave- washed  strand, 

And  alone  in  the  crowded  hall  ! 
The  hall  it  is  gay,  and  the  waves  are  grand, 

But  my  heart  is  not  there,  at  all. 
It  flies  far  away,  by  night  and  by  day. 

To  the  time  and  the  place  that  are  gone — 
Oh,  I  never  can  forget  the  maiden  I  met 

In  the  valley  near  Sliebh  na  m-ban  ! 

It  was  not  the  grace  of  her  queenly  air, 

Nor  her  cheek  like  the  rose's  glow, 
Nor  was  it  the  wave  of  her  braided  hair, 

Nor  the  gleam  of  her  lily  white  brow  ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  truth,  and  the  melting  truth, 

And  the  eye  like  the  summer  dawn, 
That  stole  my  heart  away,  one  mild  day, 

In  the  valley  near  Sliebh  na  m-ban  ! 

Alone,  all  alone,  by  the  wave-washed  shore, 

My  restless  spirit  cries — 
My  love,  oh,  my  love,  will  I  never  see  you  more? 

And  my  land  !  will  you  ever  uprise  ? 
By  night  and  by  day  I  ever  pray, 

While  lonely  the  time  rolls  on, 
To  see  our  flag  unrolled  and  my  true  love  to  unfold 

In  that  valley  near  Sliebh  na  m-ban  ! 


THE  VALLEY  LAY  SMILING  BEFORE  ME. 

THE  valley  lay  smiling  before  me 

Where  lately  I  left  her  behind  ; 
Yet  I  trembled,  and  something  hung  o'er  me 

That  saddened  tl'j  joy  of  my  mind. 
I  looked  for  the  lamp  which,  she  told  me, 

Should  shine,  when  her  pilgrim  returned  ; 
But,  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 

No  lamp  from  the  battlements  burned. 

I  flew  to  her  chamber — 'twas  lonely, 

As  if  the  loved  tenant  lay  dead  ; — 
Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  death  only  ! 

But  no,  the  young  false  one  had  fled. 
And  there  hung  the  lute  that  could  soften 

My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss  ; 
While  the  hand  that  had  waked  it  so  often, 

Now  throbbed  to  a  proud  rival's  kiss. 

There  was  a  time,  falsest  of  women  ! 

When  Breffni's  good  sword  would  have  sought 
That  man,  through  a  million  of  foemen, 

Who  dared  but  to  wrong  thee  in  tJwught ! 
While  now — oh,  degenerate  daughter 

Of  Erin,  how  fallen  is  thy  fame  ! 


And  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter 
Our  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 

Already  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane  ; 
They  come  to  divide — to  dishonor, 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  remain. 
But  onward  !  the  green  banner  rearing, 

Go,  flesh  every  sword  to  the  hilt ; 
On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Erin, 

On  theirs  is  the  Saxon  and  Guilt, 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I'M  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  ; 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green. 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  thy  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  as  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  sar, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ! 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

I  see  the  spire  from  here  ; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends, 
But,  O  !  they  lova  them  better  far, 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ; 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary,  kind  and  true, 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to. 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there  ; 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 
Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 


42  THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON. 

BY  JOHN  K.  CASEY. 

"  O,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall,  Murmurs  passed  along  the  valley,  • 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so  ?"  Like  the  banshee's  lonely  croon, 

' '  Hash,  ma  bouchal,  hush  and  listen ;"  And  a  thousand  blades  were  flashing 

And  his  cheeks  were  all  aglow.  At  the  rising  of  the  moon. 
"  I  bear  ordhers  from  the  captain, 

(Jet  you  ready  quick  and  soon  ;  There  beside  the  singing  river 

For  the  pikes  must  be  together  That  dark  mass  of  men  was  seen, 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon."  Far  above  the  shining  weapons 

Hung  their  own  beloved  green. 

"Oh,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall,  "  Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor, 

Where  the  gatherin'  is  to  be  ?  "  Forward,  strike  the  marchin'  tune, 

"  In  the  ould  spot  by  the  river,  And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  Freedom  I 

Right  well  known  to  you  and  me.  'Tis  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 
One  word  more — for  signal  token, 

Whistle  up  the  marchin'  tune,  Wel1  the7  fought  for  poor  old  Ire- 

With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder  land 

By  the  risin'  of  the  moon."  And  ful1  bitter  was  tlieir  fate- 

(Oh,  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 

Out  from  many  a  mud- wall  cabin  Fill  the  name  of  Ninety-Eight !) 

Eyes  were  watching  through  that  Yet,  thank  God,  e'en  still  are  beating 

night,  Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon, 

Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing  Who  would  follow  in  their  footsteps, 

For  the  blessed  warning  light.  At  the  risin1  of  the  moon, 

PAT  MOLLOY. 

AT  sixteen  years  of  age  I  was  my  mother's  fair-haired  boy  , 

She  kept  a  little  huckster  shop,  her  name  it  was  Malloy. 

"  I've  fourteen  children,  Pat,"  says  she,  "  which  Heav'n  to  me  has  sent ; 

But  childer  ain't  like  pigs,  you  know  ;  they  can't  pay  the  rent." 

She  gave  me  ev'ry  shilling  there  was  in  the  till, 

And  kiss'd  me  fifty  times  or  more,  as  if  she'd  never  get  her  fill, 

"  Oh  !  Heav'n  bless  you  !  Pat,"  says  she,   "  and  don't  forget,  my  boy, 

That  Ould  Ireland  is  your  country,  and  your  name  is  Pat  Malloy  ! " 

Oh  !  England  is  a  purty  place  :  of  goold  there  is  no  lack — 
I  trudged  from  York  to  London  wid  me  scythe  upon  me  back, 
The  English  girls  are  beautiful,  their  loves  I  don't  decline  ; 
The  eating  and  the  drinking,  too,  is  beautiful  and  fine  ; 
But  in  a  corner  of  me  heart,  which  nobody  can  see, 
Two  eyes  of  Irish  blue  are  always  peeping  out  at  me  ! 
O,  Molly  darlin',  never  fear  :  I'm  still  your  own  dear  boy — 
Ould  Ireland  is  me  country,  and  me  name  is  Pat  Malloy  ! 

From  Ireland  to  America,  across  the  seas,  I  roam  : 

And  every  shilling  that  I  got,  ah  !  sure  I  sent  it  home, 

Me  mother  couldn't  write,  but,  oh  !  there  came  from  Father  Boyce: 

"  Oh  !  Heav'n  bless  you  !  Pat,"  says  she — I  hear  me  mother's  voice  f 

But,  now  I'm  going  home  again,  as  poor  as  I  began, 

To  make  a  happy  girl  of  Moll,  and  sure  I  think  I  can  : 

Me  pockets  they  are  empty,  but  me  heart  is  fill'd  with  joy ; 

For  Ould  Ireland  is  me  country,  and  me  name  is  Pat  Malloy. 


PADDY  IS  THE  BOY  43 

IT'S  some  years  ago,  I  very  well  know. 

Since  I  first  saw  daylight  with  my  two  blessed  eyes  ; 

I  was  born,  so  they  say,  when  my  Dad  was  away, 

On  St.  Patrick's  day,  in  the  morning. 
How  they  nursed  me  with  joy  ;  said,  what  a  fine  boy  I 
Put  a  stick  in  my  fist,  by  the  way  of  a  toy  ; 
Faith  !  there's  no  mistake,  they  admired  my  make, 

And  said  some  day  I'd  give  the  girls  a  warming. 

CHORUS. 

For  Paddy  is  the  boy  that's  fond  of  a  glass, 
Paddy  is  the  boy  that's  fond  of  a  lass  ! 
Dear  Old  Dublin  is  the  place  for  me, 
And  Donnybrook  is  the  place  to  go  for  a  spree. 

At  a  wake  or  a  fair,  poor  Paddy  is  there  ; 

He  will  fight  foe  or  friend,  if  they  do  him  offend  ; 

Let  the  piper  strike  up,  he  will  rise  from  his  cup, 

With  a  smile  on  his  face  adorning. 
With  his  little  Colleen,  he'll  dance  on  the  green, 
Sure,  an  Irishman  there  in  his  glory  was  seen  ; 
Play  a  reel  or  a  jig,  he  don't  care  a  fig, 

But  he'll  dance  till  daylight  in  the  morning. 

For  Paddy  is  the  boy,  &e. 

Now  boys,  do  you  mind,  you  never  will  find, 
Such  a  dear  little  place  as  the  Emerald  Isle  ; 
Long,  long  may  it  stand,  and  good  luck  to  the  land 

That  dear  old  St.  Patrick  was  born  in  ! 

May  the  girls,  young  and  old,  may  the  boys,  brave  and  bold. 
Unite,  heart  and  hand,  to  protect  the  dear  isle  ! 
And,  morn,  noon,  and  night,  may  joy  and  delight 
Shine  on  them,  like  a  fine  summer's  morning. 

For  Paddy  is  the  boy,  &c. 


YOUR  PURTY  GIRL  MILKING  HER  COW. 

TWAS  on  a  bright  morning  in  summer 

I  first  heard  his  voice  speakin'  low, 
As  he  said  to  a  colleen  beside  me, 

Who's  that  purty  girl  milking  her  cow  ? 
Oh  !  many  times  afther  ye  met  me, 

An'  vowed  that  I  always  should  be 
Your  darlin'  acushla,  alanna,  mavourneen, 

A  suilish  machree. 

I  haven't  the  manners  or  graces 

Of  the  girls  in  the  world  where  ye  mov« 
I  haven't  their  beautiful  faces, 

But  oh  !  I've  a  heart  that  can  love  ; 
If  it  plaise  ye,  I'll  dress  me  in  satin, 

An'  jewels  I'll  put  on  my  brow, 
But  oh  !  don't  be  afther  forgettin' 

Your  purty  girl  milking  her  cow. 


44       I  WOULD  NOT  DIE  IN  YOUTH'S  BRIGHT  HOUB. 

BT  THOS.    FRANCIS  MEAGHER. 

I  "WOULD  not  die  in  this  bright  hour, 

While  Hope's  sweet  stream  is  flowing  ; 
I  would  not  die  while  Youth's  gay  flowtr 

In  springtide  pride  is  glowing. 
The  path  I  trace  in  fiery  dreams 

For  manhood's  flight,  to-morrow, 
Oh,  let  me  tread,  'mid  those  bright  gleams 

Which  souls  from  Fame  will  borrow. 
I  would  not  die  !  I  would  not  die 

In  Youth's  bright  hour  of  pleasure  ; 
I  would  not  leave,  without  a  sigh, 

The  dreams,  the  hopes  I  treasure  ! 

I  set  young  seeds  in  earth  to-day, 

While  yet  the  sun  was  gushing, 
And  shall  I  pass,  ere  these,  away, 

Nor  see  the  flowerets  blushing? 
Are  these  young  seeds,  when  earth  looks  fair, 

To  rise  with  fragrance  teeming, 
And  shall  the  hand  that  placed  them  ther« 

Lie  cold  when  they  are  gleaming  ? 
I  would  not  die  !  I  would  not  die 

In  Youth's  bright  hour  of  pleasure  ; 
I  would  not  leave,  without  a  sigh, 

The  dreams,  the  hopes  I  treasure. 


DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY! 

[In  that  rebellions  but  beautiful  song,  "  When  Erin  first  arose,"  there  is,  if  I  recollect 
aright,  the  following  line,  "  The  dark  chain  of  silence  was  thrown  o'er  the  deep. ''  The  chaim 
of  silence  was  a  sort  of  practical  figure  of  rhetoric  among  the  ancient  Irish,  walker  tells  ui 
of  "A  celebrated  contention  for  precedence  between  Finn  and  Gaul,  near  Finn's  palace,  at 
Almhaim,  where  the  attending  bards,  anxious  if  possible  to  produce  a  cessation  of  hoitiU- 
ti«i,  shook  the  chain  of  silence  and  flung  themselves  among  the  ranks."] 

DEAR  Harp  of  my  country  !  in  darkness  I  found  thee  ; 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long  ; 
When  proudly,  my  own  island  harp,  I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song  ! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 

Have  wakened  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill  ; 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 

That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 


Dear  Harp  of  my  country  !  farewell  to  thy  number 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twin*  ; 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine : 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbbed  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone  ; 
I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was  thjr  owa. 


ONE  OF  THE  RANK  AND  FILE.  45 

'TWAS  a  glorious  day,  worth  a  warrior's  telling  : 

Two  kings  had  fought,  and  the  fight  was  done, 
When,  amidst  the  shouts  of  victory  swelling, 

A  soldier  fell  on  the  field  he'd  won. 
He  thought  of  kings  and  royal  quarrels, 

And  thought  of  glory  without  a  smile— 
For  what  had  he  to  do  with  laurels, 

He  was  only  one  of  the  rank  and  file. 
But  drawing  his  little  cruiskeen, 
He  drank  to  his  pretty  colleen, 

"  Oh,  darling  !  "  said  he,  "  if  I  die, 

Tou  won't  be  a  widow,  for  why  ?   . 
Sure  you  would  never  have  me,  'vou'rneen." 

Then  a  raven  tress  from  his  bosom  taking, 

That  now  was  stained  with  his  life-stream 
A  fervent  prayer  on  that  ringlet  making. 

He  blessings  sought  on  the  loved  one's  head. 
And  visions  fair  of  his  native  mountains 

Arose,  enchanting  his  fading  sight  ; 
Her  emerald  valleys  and  crystal  fountains 

Were  never  shining  more  clear  and  bright. 
But  grasping  his  little  cruiskeen, 
He  pledged  that  dear  island  so  green : 

"  Though  far  from  thy  valleys  I  die, 

Dearest  isle  of  my  heart,  thou  art  nigh, 
As  though  absent  I  never  had  been." 

A  tear  now  fell,  for  as  life  was  sinking, 

The  pride  that  guarded  his  manly  eye 
Had  weaker  grown,  and  such  tender  thinking 

Brought  heaven  and  home,  his  true  love,  nigh 
But,  with  the  fire  of  his  gallant  nation, 

He  scorned  surrender  without  a  blow  ; 
He  met  death  with  capitulation, 

And  with  warlike  honors  he  would  go. 
But  drawing  his  little  cruiskeen 
He  drank  to  his  cruel  colleen, 

To  the  emerald  land  of  his  birth, 

Then  lifeless  he  sunk  to  the  earth 
Brave  a  soldier  as  ever  was  seen. 


"HE  LIKE  A  SOLDIER  FELL." 

BY  EDWAKD   FITZBALL. 

O  LET  me  like  a  soldier  fall  I  only  ask  of  that  proud  race 

Upon  some  open  plain  ;  Which  ends  its  blaze  in  me, 

This  breast,  expanding  for  the  ball  To  die  the  last,  and  not  disgrace 

To  blot  out  every  stain  ;  Its  ancient  chivalry  ; 

Brave,  manly  hearts  confer  my  doom,  Though  o'er  my  clay  no  banner  wave, 

That  gentler  ones  may  tell  No  trumpet  requiem  swell, 

Howe'er  forgot,  unknown  my  tomb,  Enough,  they  murmur  at  my  grave, 

I  like  a  soldier  fell.  "  He  like  a  soldier  fell." 


46  "I  WON'T  LET  YOU  IN!" 

'TWAS  a  cowld  winter's  night  and  the  tempest  was  snarlin', 

ry>1  "    now,  like  a  sheet,  cover'd  cabin  and  sty, 
When  rfarney  flew  over  the  hills  to  his  darlin', 

1  vapp'd  at  the  window  where  Katty  did  lie. 
"  Arrah,  jewel,"  says  he,  "  are  you  sleeping  or  waking, 

It's  a  bitter  c»wld  night,  and  my  coat  it  is  thin, 
The  storm  it  is  brewiu',  the  frost  it  is  bakin', 

Oh,  Katty,  avourneen,  you  must  let  me  in  !" 

"  Ah,  then,  Barney,"  says  Kate,  and  she  spoke  through  the  window, 

"  How  could  you  be  taking  us  out  of  our  bed, 
To  come  at  this  time,  it's  a  shame  and  a  sin,  too, 

It's  whiskey,  not  love,  has  got  into  your  head. 
If  your  heart  it  was  true,  of  my  fame  you'd  be  tindher, 

Considher  the  time,  an'  there's  nobody  in, 
What  has  a  poor  girl  but  her  name  to  defend  her  ? 

No,  Barney,  avourneen,  I  won't  let  you  in  ! " 

"  Acushla,"  says  he,  "  it's  my  heart  is  a  fountain, 

That  weeps  for  the  wrong  I  might  lay  at  your  door  ; 
Your  name  is  more  white  than  the  snow  on  the  mountain, 

And  Barney  'Id  die  to  presarve  it  as  pure. 
I'll  go  to  my  home,  tho'  the  winter  winds  face  me, 

I'll  whistle  them  off,  for  I'm  happy  within, 
And  the  words  of  my  Katty  will  comfort  and  bless  me, 

'  No,  Barney,  avourneen,  I  won't  let  you  in  ! ' " 


I  SHALL  MEET  THEE  AGAIN! 

OH  !  Dermot  Asthore  !  between  waking  and  sleeping, 

I  heard  thy  dear  voice,  and  I  wept  to  its  lay  ; 
Ev'ry  pulse  of  my  heart,  the  sweet  measure  was  keeping, 

Till  Killarney's  wild  echoes  had  borne  it  away. 
Oh  !  tell  me,  my  own  love,  is  this  our  last  meeting? 

Shall  we  wander  no  more  in  Killarney's  green  bow'rs, 
To  watch  the  bright  sun  o'er  the  dim  hills  retreating, 

And  the  wild  stag  at  rest  in  his  bed  of  spring  flow'rs. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  !  Dermot  Astore  !  between  waking  and  sleeping, 
I  heard  thy  dear  voice,  and  wept  to  its  lay  ; 

Ev'ry  pulse  of  the  heart,  the  sweet  measure  was  keeping 
Till  Killarney's  wild  echoes  had  borne  it  away. 

Oh  !  Dermot  Astore  !  how  this  fond  heart  would  flutter, 

When  I  met  thee  by  night,  in  the  shady  boreen, 
And  heard  thy  own  voice  in  a  soft  whisper  utter, 

Those  words  of  endearment,  "Mavourneen  Colleen." 
I  know  we  must  part,  but  oh  !  say  not  forever, 

That  it  may  be  for  years  adds  enough  to  my  pain. 
But  I'll  cling  to  the  hope  that  tho'  now  we  must  sever, 

In  gome  blessed  hour  I  shall  meet  thee  again. 

Oh!  etc. 


KATE    KEARNEY.  47 

OH  !  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  Kate  Kearney  ? 
She  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney  ; 
From  the  glance  of  her  eye,  shun  danger  arid  fly, 
For  fatal's  the  glance  of  Kate  Kearney. 

For  that  eye  is  so  modestly  beaming, 
You'd  ne'er  think  of  mischief  she's  dreaming 
Yet,  oh  !  I  can  tell ,  how  fatal's  the  spell 
That  lurks  in  the  eye  of  Kate  Kearney. 

0,  should  you  e'er  meet  this  Kate  Kearney, 
Who  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney, 
Beware  of  her  smile,  for  many  a  wile 
Lies  hid  in  the  smile  of  Kate  Kearney. 

Though  she  looks  so  bewitchingly  simple, 
Yet  there's  mischief  in  every  dimple, 
And  who  dares  inhale  her  sigh's  spicy  gale, 
Must  die  by  the  breath  of  Kate  Kearney. 


SWEET  NOEA  O'NEAL. 

OH  !  I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you, 

And  I  sigh  for  one  glance  of  your  eye  ; 
For,  sure  there's  a  charm,  love,  about  you, 

Whenever  I  know  you  are  nigh. 
Like  the  beam  of  the  star  when  'tis  smiling, 

Is  the  glance  which  your  eye  can't  conceal, 
And  your  voice  is  so  sweet  and  beguiling 

That  I  love  you,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal. 
Oh  !  don't  think  that  ever  I'll  doubt  you, 

My  love  I  will  never  conceal ; 
Oh  !  I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you, 

My  darling,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal ! 

Oh,  the  nightingale  sings  in  the  wild-wood, 

As  if  every  note  that  he  knew 
Was  learned  from  your  sweet  voice  in  childhood, 

To  remind  me,  sweet  Nora,  of  you. 
But  I  think,  love,  so  often  about  you, 

And  you  don't  know  how  happy  I  feel, 
But  I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you 

My  darling,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal  ! 

Oh  !  don't  think,  etc. 

Oh  !  why  should  I  weep  tears  of  sorrow  ? 

Oh  !  why  let  hope  lose  its  place  ? 
Won't  I  meet  you,  my  darling,  to-morrow, 

And  smile  on  your  beautiful  face  ? 
Will  you  meet  me  ?   Oh  !  say  you  will  meet  me 

With  a  kiss  at  the  foot  of  the  lane, 
And  I'll  promise  whenever  you  greet  ine 

That  I'll  never  be  lonely  again. 

Oh  !  don't  think,  etc. . . 


COME  BACK  TO  ERIN,  MAVOURNEEN! 

COME  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

Come  back,  aroon,  to  the  land  of  thy  birth, 
^.ime  with  the  shamrocks  and  spring-time,  mavourueea. 

And  it's  Killarney  shall  ring  with  our  mirth. 
Sure,  when  we  lent  you  to  beautiful  England, 

Little  we  thought  of  the  lone  winter  days, 
Little  we  thought  of  the  hush  of  the  star  shine 

Over  the  mountains,  the  bluffs  and  the  braes  ! 
Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

Come  back  again  to  the  land  of  thy  birth, 
Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

And  it's  Killarney  shall  ring  with  our  mirth. 

Over  the  green  sea,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

Long  shone  the  white  sail  that  bore  thee  away, 
Riding  the  white  waves,  that  fair  summer  mornin', 

Just  like  a  mayflower  afloat  on  the  bay. 
Oh  !  but  my  heart  sank  when  clouds  came  between  us 

Like  a  gray  curtain  the  rain  falling  down, 
Hid  from  my  sad  eyes  the  parh  oW  the  ocean, 

Far,  far  away  where  my  colleen  had  flown. 
Oh  !  may  the  angels,  oh,  wakin'  and  sleepin', 

Watch  o'er  my  bird  in  the  land  far  away  ! 
And  it's  my  prayer  will  consign  to  their  keepin' 

Care  o'  my  jewel  by  night  and  by  day. 


SWEET  NORAH  McSHANE. 

I'VE  left  Ballymornach  a  long  way  behind  me, 

To  better  my  fortune  I've  crossed  the  big  sea  ; 
But  I'm  sadly  alone,  not  a  creature  to  mind  me, 

And  faith  I'm  as  wretched  as  wretched  can  be  ; 
I  think  of  the  buttermilk,  fresh  as  the  daisy, 

The  beautiful  hills  and  the  emerald  plain, 
And,  ah  !  don't  I  oftentimes  think  myself  crazy, 

About  that  black-eyed  rogue,  sweet  Norah  McShane. 

I  sigh  for  the  turf-pile  so  cheerfully  burning, 

When  barefoot  I  trudged  it  from  toiling  afar, 
When  I  toss'd  in  the  light  the  thirteen  I'd  been  earning, 

And  whistled  the  anthem  of  "  Erin  go  bragh." 
In  truth,  I  believe  that  I'm  half  broken-hearted, 

To  my  country  and  love  I  must  get  back  again, 
For  I've  never  been  happy  at  all  since  I  parted 

From  sweet  Ballymornach  and  Norah  McShane. 

Oh  !  there's  something  so  sweet  in  the  cot  I  was  bora  in, 
Though  the  walls  are  but  mud  and  the  roof  is  but  thatck ; 

How  familiar  the  grunt  of  the  pigs  in  the  mornin', 
What  music  in  lifting  the  rusty  old  latch. 

Tia  true  I'd  no  money,  but  then  I'd  no  sorrow, 
My  pockets  were  light,  but  my  head  had  no  pain  ; 

And  if  I  but  live  till  the  sun  shine  to-morrow, 
ould  Ireland  and  Norah  McShane. 


THE  WILD  ROSE  OF  ERIN.  49 

HER  long  raven  locks  in  the  night  wind  was  streaming' 

As  over  the  waters  she  mournfully  gazed, 
The  moonbeams  around  her  were  placidly  beaming, 

That  beautiful  daughter  of  Erin  wa-  crazed  ; 
She  plucked  a  wild  rose  that  in  beauty  was  glowing, 

Then,  kissing  it,  bade  the  fair  flower  decay, 
And  on  the  dark  waves  which  were  quietly  flowing, 

The  wild  rose  of  Erin  soon  wither'd  away. 

Bright,  beautiful  type  of  a  heart  that  was  broken, 

The  fair  hand  that  cull'd  and  then  left  it  to  die, 
Was  woo'd  and  was  won,  but  those  vows  kindly  spoken, 

Deceived  and  then  left  her  'mid  sorrow  to  sigh  ; 
Twas  far  from  the  spot  where  the  shamrock  was  growing, 
-  Her  false-hearted  lover  had  left  her  to  stray, 
While  on  the  dark  waves  which  were  quietly  flowing 

The  wild  rose  of  Erin  soon  wither'd  away. 


A  SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 

UPON  the  hill  he  turn'd,  to  take  a  last  fond  look 

At  the  valley,  and  the  village  church,  and  the  cottage  by  the  brook  ; 

He  listened  to  the  sounds  so  familiar  to  his  ear, 

And  the  soldier  lean'd  upon  his  sword,  and  wiped  away  a  tear. 

Beside  that  cottage  porch  a  girl  was  ou  her  knees, 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf,  which  flutter'd  in  the  breeze  ; 
She  breathed  a  prayer  for  him,  a  prayer  he  could  not  hear  ; 
But  he  paused  to  bless  her  as  she  knelt,  and  wiped  away  a  tear. 

He  turn'd  and  left  the  spot — oh  !  do  not  deem  him  weak, 

For  dauntless  was  the  soldier's  heart,  though  tears  were  on  his  cheek. 

Go  watch  the  foremost  ranks  in  danger's  dark  career — 

Be  sure  the  hand  most  daring  there  has  wiped  away  a  tear. 


I  CANNOT  SING  THE  OLD  SONGS. 

CLAIUBEL. 

I  CANNOT  sing  the  old  songs  I  sung  long  years  ago  : 
For  heart  and  voice  would  fail  me,  and  foolish  tears  would  flow  ; 
For  by-gone  hours  come  o'er  my  heart,  with  each  familiar  strain 
I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs,  or  dream  those  dreams  again  ! 

I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs,  their  charm  is  sad  and  deep  ; 
Their  melodies  would  waken  old  sorrows  from  their  sleep  ; 
And  tho'  all  unforgotten  still,  and  sadly  sweet  they  be — 
I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs,  they  are  too  dear  to  me  ! 

I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs  :  for  visions  come  again 
Of  golden  dreams  departed,  and  years  of  weary  pain. 
Perhaps,  when  earthly  fetters  shall  have  set  my  spirit  f re«. 
My  voice  may  know  the  old  songa,  for  all  eternity  ! 


50  OH,  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME! 

AIK — "  The  Brown  Maid." 

OH  !  breathe  not  his  name — let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonor'd  his  relics  are  laid  ! 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head  1 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  tho'  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps  ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  tho'  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


.THE  GRAVE  OF  WOLFE  TONE. 

BY   THOMAS   DAVIS. 

IN  Bodenstown  Churchyard  there  is  a  green  grave, 
And  wildly  along  it  the  winter  winds  rave  ; 
Small  shelter,  I  ween,  are  the  ruined  walls  there, 
When  the  storm  sweeps  down  on  the  plains  of  Kildare. 

Once  I  lay  on  that  sod — it  lies  over  Wolfe  Tone — 
And  thought  how  he  perished  in  prison  alone, 
His  friends  unavenged,  and  his  country  unfreed — 
"Oh,  bitter,"  I  said,  "  is  a  patriot's  meed. 

' '  For  in  him  the  heart  of  a  woman  combined 
With  a  heroic  life,  and  a  governing  mind — 
A  martyr  for  Ireland — his  grave  has  no  stone, 
His  name  seldom  named,  and  his  virtues  unknown." 

I  was  woke  from  my  dream  by  the  voices  and  tread 

Of  a  band,  who  came  into  the  home  of  the  dead  ; 

They  carried  no  corpse,  and  they  carried  no  stone, 

And  they  stopped  when  they  came  to  the  grave  of  Wolfe  TflB& 

There  were  students  and  peasants,  the  wise  and  the  brave, 
And  an  old  man  who  knew  him  from  cradle  to  grave, 
And  the  children  who  thought  me  hard-hearted  ;  for  they 
On  that  sanctified  soil  were  forbidden  to  play. 

But  the  old  man,  who  saw  I  was  mourning  there,  said  : 
"  We  come,  sir,  to  weep  where  young  Wolfe  Tone  is  laid, 
And  we're  going  to  raise  him  a  monument,  too — 
A  plain  one,  yet  fit  for  the  simple  and  true." 

My  heart  overflowed,  and  I  clasped  his  old  hand, 
And  I  blessed  him,  and  blessed  everyone  of  his  band 
"  Sweet !  sweet !  'tis  to  find  that  such  faith  can  remain 
To  the  cause,  and  the  man  so  long  vanquished  and  slain.  J 

In  the  Bodenstown  Churchyard  there  is  a  green 
And  freely  around  it  let  winter  winds  rave — 
Far  better  they  suit  him — the  ruin  and  gloom — 
TILL  IRELAND,  A  NATION.  CAN  BUILD  HIM  A  TOMB. 


THE   SOLDIER   OF    ERIN.  51 

AIR — "  Exile  of  Erin." 

THE  shadows  of  darkness  around  him  were  falling, 

And  eve's  lonely  star  lit  the  wanderer's  way, 
When  the  harp  of  the  minstrel,  his  footsteps  recalling, 

The  brave  soldier  paused  at  the  heart-moving  lay. 
Oh  !  dear  to  my  soul  in  the  spring-time  of  feeling, 

Ere  the  blight  of  the  cold  world  had  swept  o'er  its  flowers  ; 
Was  that  strain  of  my  childhood  from  tender  lips  stealing 

In  fair  Connamara's  now  desolate  bow'rs. 

Sweet  song  of  my  boyhood,  still  deeper  and  deeper, 

It  sinks  on  my  heart  as  I  list  to  the  strain  ; 
Like  a  dream  of  the  dead  that  steals  o'er  the  sleeper, 

And  brings  back  the  lost  and  the  loved  ones  again. 
Dear  voice  of  the  past,  like  the  Jone  harp  of  Tara, 

It  wakes  'mid  the  ruins  of  all  I  deplore ; 
Farewell  to  thy  green  hills,  my  fair  Connamara, 

First  home  of  my  heart,  I  shall  see  thee  no  more. 


BEN  BOLT  AND   SWEET  ALICE. 

OH  !  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt, 

Sweet  Alice  with  hair  so  brown  ? 
She  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown. 
In  the  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone, 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  granite  so  gray, 

And  poor  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

They  have  fitted,  et«. 

Oh  !  don't  you  remember  the  wood,  Ben  Bolt, 

Near  the  green  sunny  slope  of  the  hill  ; 
Where  oft  we  have  sang  'neath  its  wide-spreading  shades, 

And  kept  time  to  the  click  of  the  mill? 
The  mill  has  gone  to  decay,  Ben  Bolt, 

And  a  quiet  now  reigns  all  around  ; 
See  the  old  rustic  porch,  with  its  roses  so  sweet, 

Lies  scatter'd  and  fall'n  to  the  ground. 

See  the  old,  etc. 

Oh  !  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

And  the  master  so  kind  and  so  true  ; 
And  the  little  nook  by  the  clear  running  brook, 

Where  we  gat  her 'd  the  flowers  as  they  grew? 
On  the  master's  grave  grows  the  grass,  Ben  Bolt, 

And  the  running  little  brook  is  now  dry  ; 
And  of  all  the  friends  who  were  schoolmates  then 

There  remain,  Ben,  but  you  and  I. 

And  of  all,  etc. 


52  CAOCH,    THE    PIPER. 

BY  J.    KEEGAN. 

ONE  winter's  day,  long,  long  ago, 

When  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
A  piper  wandered  to  our  door, 

Gray-headed,  blind,  and  yellow. 
And  oh,  how  glad  was  my  young  heart, 

Though  earth  and  sky  looked  dreary, 
To  see  the  stranger  and  his  dog — 

Poor  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

And  when  he  stowed  away  his  "  bag," 

Cross-barred  with  green  and  yellow, 
I  thought  and  said,  "  In  Ireland's  ground 

There's  not  so  fine  a  fellow." 
And  Fineen  Burk  and  Shane  Magee, 

And  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
Rushed  in  with  frantic  haste  to  ' '  see  " 

And  "  welcome  "  Caoch  O'Leary. 

O  God  !  be  with  those  happy  times, 

O  God  !  be  with  my  childhood, 
When  I,  bare-headed,  roamed  all  day 

Bird-nesting  in  the  wild- wood — 
I'll  not  forget  those  sunny  hours, 

However  years  may  vary  ; 
I'll  not  forget  my  early  friends, 

Nor  honest  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Poor  Caoch  and  Pinch  slept  well  that  night, 

And  in  the  morning  early 
He  called  me  up  to  hear  him  play 

"  The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley. " 
And  then  he  stroked  my  flaxen  hair, 

And  cried,  "  God  mark  my  deary  !  " 
And  how  he  wept  when  he  said  "  Farewell, 

And  think  of  Caoch  O'Leary," 

And  seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 

Old  Caoch  was  not  forgotten, 
Although  I  thought  him  "  dead  and  gone," 

And  in  the  cold  clay  rotten  ; 
And  often  when  I  walked  and  danced 

With  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
We  spoke  of  childhood's  rosy  hours, 

And  prayed  for  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Well,  twenty  summers  had  gone  past, 
And  June's  red  sun  was  sinking, 

When  1,  a  man,  sat  by  my  door, 
Of  twenty  sad  things  thinking. 


CAOCH,    THE   PIPER.  §3 

(Concluded.) 

A.  little  dog  came  up  the  way, 

His  gait  was  slow  and  weary, 
And  at  his  tail  a  lame  man  limped— 

'Twas  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Old  Caoch  !  but  oh,  how  woe-begone ! 

His  form  is  bowed  and  bending, 
His  fleshless  hands  are  stiff  and  wan, 

Ay,  Time  is  even  blending 
The  colors  on  his  threadbare  "  bag," 

And  Pinch  is  twice  as  hairy 
And  "  thin-spare  "  as  when  first  I  saw 

Himself  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

"  God's  blessing  here  !  "  the  wanderer  cried, 

"Far,  far  be  hell's  black  viper — 
Does  anybody  hereabouts 

Remember  Caoch  the  Piper  ?  " 
With  swelling  heart  I  grasped  his  hand, 

The  old  man  murmured  ' '  Deary  ! 
Are  you  the  silky-headed  child 

That  loved  poor  Caoch  O'Leary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said — the  wanderer  wept 

As  if  his  heart  was  breaking — 
"  And  where,  a  vhic  machree,"  *  he  sobbed, 

' '  Is  all  the  merry-making 
I  found  here  twenty  years  ago  ?  " 

"  My  tale,"  I  sighed,  "  might  weary- 
Enough  to  say,  there's  none  but  me 

To  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary  !  " 

"  Vo — vo — vo  !  "  the  old  man  cried, 

And  wrung  his  hands  in  sorrow, 
"  Pray  lead  me  in,  asthore  machree, 

And  I'll  go  home  to-morrow. 
My  '  peace  is  made,'  I'll  calmly  leave 

This  world  so  cold  and  dreary, 
And  you  shall  keep  my  pipes  and  dog, 

And  pray  for  Caoch  O'Leary  !  " 

With  Pinch  I  watched  his  bed  that  night, 

Next  day  his  wish  was  granted  ; 
He  died,  and  Father  James  was  brought, 

And  the  Requiem  Mass  was  chanted. 
The  neighbors  came  ;  we  dug  his  grave, 

Near  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
And  there  he'  sleeps  his  last  sweet  sl««p— 

God  rest  you,  Caoch  O'Leary  ! 

*  Son  of  my  heart. 


AILEEN,  MAVOURNEEN. 

HE  tells  me  he  loves  me,  and  can  I  believe 
The  heart  he  has  won  he  can  wish  to  deceive, 
Forever  and  always  his  sweet  words  to  me 
Are  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushla  machree. 

Last  night  when  we  parted,  his  gentle  good-by, 
A  thousand  times  said,  and  each  time  with  a  sigh, 
And  still  the  same  sweet  words  he  whispered  to  me, 
My  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushla  machree. 

The  friend  of  my  childhood,  the  friend  of  my  youth, 
Whose  heart  is  all  pure,  and  whose  words  are  all  trutk, 
Oh,  still  the  same  sweet  words  he  whispered  to  me, 
My  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushla  machree. 

Oh,  when  will  the  day  come,  the  dear  happy  day, 
That  a  maiden  may  hear  all  a  lover  can  say, 
And  speak  out  the  words  he  now  whispers  to  me, 
My  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushla  machree  ! 


THE  WHISTLING  THIEF. 

WHEN  Pat  came  o'er  the  hills  his  colleen  fair  to  see, 
His  whistle,  loud  and  shrill,  his  signal  was  to  be. 
"Oh  !  Mary,"  the  mother  cried,  "there's  some  one  whistling  sure." 
' '  Oh  !  Mother,  you  know,  it's  the  wind  that's  whistling  through  the  door. 

[Whistles  "Garry  Owen."] 

"  I've  lived  a  long  time,  Mary,  in  this  wide  world,  my  dear, 
But  the  wind  to  whistle  like  that,  I  never  yet  did  hear." 
"  But,  mother,  you  know,  the  fiddle  hangs  close  behind  the  chink, 
And  the  wind  upon  the  strings  is  playing  a  tune,  I  think." 

[Dog  barks.] 

"The  dog  is  barking  now,  and  the  fiddle  can't  play  that  tune." 
"  But,  mother,  you  know  that  dogs  will  bark,  when  they  see  the  moon." 
•'  Now,  how  can  he  see  the  moon,  when  you  know  he's  old  and  blind? 
Blind  dogs  can't  see  the  moon,  nor  fiddles  be  played  by  the  wind. 

[Pig  grunts.] 

"And  now  there  is  the  pig  uneasy  in  his  mind." 
"But,  mother,  you  know,  they  say  that  pigs  can  see  the  wind." 
"  That's  all  very  well  in  the  day,  but  then  I  may  remark 
That  pigs,  no  more  than  we,  can  see  anything  in  the  dark. 

"  Now,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think  ;  I  know  very  well  it  is  Pat. 
Get  out  !  you  whistling  thief,  and  get  along  home  out  o'  that. 
And  you,  be  off  to  your  bed,  and  don't  bother  me  with  your  tears  ; 
For,  tho'  I've  lost  my  eyes,  I  have  not  lost  my  ears." 

MORAL. 

Now,  boys,  too  near  the  house  don't  courting  go,  d'ye  mind  ? 
Unless  you're  certain  sure  the  old  woman's  both  deaf  and  blind. 
The  days  when  they  were  young,  forget  they  never  can  ; 
They're  sure  to  tell  the  difference  'twixt  wind,  fiddle,  pig,  dog,  or  man. 


PADDY   BLAKE'S   ECHO.  55 

BY   SAMUEL  LOVER. 

One  of  the  Wonders  of  Killarney. 

IN  the  gap  of  Dunlo 

There's  an  echo,  or  SO) 
And  some  of  them  echoes  is  very  surprisin'  ; 

You'll  think,  in  a  stave 

That  I  mane  to  desaive, 
For  a  ballad's  a  thing  you  expect  to  find  lies  in. 

But  visibly  thrue 

In  that  hill  forninst  you 
There's  an  echo  as  plain  and  as  safe  as  the  bank,  too  ; 

But  civilly  spake 
"How  d'ye  do,  Paddy  Blake?" 
The  echo  politely  says,  "  Very  well,  thank  you  ! " 

One  day  Teddy  Keogh 

With  Kate  Connor  did  go 
To  hear  from  the  echo  such  wondherful  talk,  sir  ; 

But  the  echo,  they  say, 

Was  conthrairy  that  day, 
Or  perhaps  Paddy  Blake  had  gone  out  for  a  walk,  sir. 

So  Ted  says  to  Kate, 
' '  'Tis  too  hard  to  be  bate 
By  that  deaf  and  dumb  baste  of  an  echo,  so  lazy, 

But  if  we  both  shout 

At  each  other,  no  doubt, 
We'll  make  up  an  echo  between  us,  my  daisy  ! 

"Now,  Kitty,"  says  Teddy, 
' '  To  answer  be  ready. " 

'Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  cried  out  Kitty,  then,  sir, 
"  Would  you  like  to  wed, 

Kitty  darlin' '! "  says  Ted. 

'  Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  says  Kitty  again,  sir. 
"  D'ye  like  me  f  "  says  Teddy, 

And  Kitty,  quite  ready, 

Cried  "  Very  well,  thank  you  ! "  with  laughter  beguiling. 
Now  won't  you  confess 
Teddy  could  not  do  less 
Than  pay  his  respects  to  the  lips  that  were  smiling  ! 

Oh,  dear  Paddy  Blake, 

May  you  never  forsake 
Those  hills  that  return  us  such  echoes  endearing  ! 

And,  girls,  all  translate 

The  sweet  echoes  like  Kate, 
No  faithfulness  doubting,  no  treachery  fearing. 

And,  boys,  be  you  ready, 

Like  frolicsome  Teddy, 
Be  earnest  in  loving,  though  given  to  joking  ; 

And  thus  when  inclined, 

May  all  true  lovers  find 
Sweet  echoes  to  answer  from  hearts  they're  invoking  ! 


56  UNROLL  ERIN'S  FLAG  TO  THE  BREEZE  I 

BY  FATHER  RYAN. 

UNROLL  Erin's  flag  !  fling  its  folds  to  the  breeze  ! 

Let  it  float  o'er  the  land,  let  it  wave  o'er  the  seas  ; 

Lift  it  out  of  the  dust — let  it  wave  as  of  yore, 

When  its  chiefs  with  their  clans  stood  around  it  and  swore 

That  never,  no,  never,  while  God  gave  them  life, 

And  they  had  an  arm  and  a  sword  for  the  strife, 

That  never,  no,  never,  that  banner  would  yield, 

As  long  as  the  heart  of  a  Celt  was  its  shield  ; 

While  the  hand  of  a  Celt  had  a  weapon  to  wield, 

And  his  last  drop  of  blood  was  unshed  on  the  field  ! 

Lift  it  up  !  wave  it  high  !  'tis  as  bright  as  of  old  ; 

Not  a  stain  on  its  green,  not  a  blot  on  its  gold, 

Though  the  woes  and  the  wrongs  of  three  hundred  long  years 

Have  drenched  Erin's  Sunburst  with  blood  and  with  tears  ; 

Though  the  clouds  of  oppression  enshroud  it  in  gloom, 

And  around  it  the  thunders  of  tyranny  boom, 

Look  aloft  !  look  aloft  !  lo  !  the  cloud's  drifting  by, 

There's  a  gleam  through  the  gloom,  there's  a  light  in  the  sky. 

'Tis  the  Sunburst  resplendent — far  flashing  on  high  ; 

Erin's  dark  night  is  waning,  her  day-dawn  is  nigh. 

Lift  it  up  !  lift  it  up  !  the  old  Banner  of  Green  : 

The  blood  of  its  sons  has  but  brightened  its  sheen. 

What  though  the  tyrant  has  trampled  it  down, 

Are  its  folds  not  emblazoned  with  deeds  of  renown  ? 

What  though  for  ages  it  droops  in  the  dust, 

Shall  it  droop  thus  forever?    No,  no  !  God  is  just ! 

Take  it  up  !  take  it  up  from  the  tyrant's  foul  tread  ; 

Lest  he  tear  the  Green  Flag,  we  will  snatch  its  last  shred, 

And  beneath  it  we'll  bleed  as  our  forefathers  bled, 

And  we'll  vow  by  the  dust  in  the  graves  of  our  dead, 

And  we'll  swear  by  the  blood  that  the  Briton  has  shed, 
And  we'll  vow  by  the  wrecks  which  through  Erin  he  spread, 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  thousands  who  famished,  unfed. 
Died  down  in  the  ditches — wild  howling  for  bread, 
And  we'll  vow  by  our  heroes,  whose  spirits  have  fled, 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  bones  in  each  coffinless  bed, 
That  we'll  battle  the  Briton  through  danger  and  dread  ; 
That  we'll  cling  to  the  cause  which  we  glory  to  wed 
Till  the  gleam  of  our  steel  and  the  shock  of  our  lead 
Shall  prove  to  the  foe  that  we  meant  what  we  said — 
That  we'll  lift  up  the  Green,  and  we'll  tear  down  the  Red. 

Lift  up  the  Green  Flag  !  oh,  it  wants  to  go  home, 
Full  long  has  its  lot  been  to  wander  and  roam  : 
It  has  followed  the  fate  of  its  sons  o'er  the  world, 
But  its  folds,  like  their  hopes,  are  not  faded  nor  furled  ; 
Like  a  weary-winged  bird,  to  the  East  and  the  West 
It  has  flitted  and  fled,  but  it  never  shall  rest, 
Till,  pluming  its  pinions,  it  sweeps  o'er  the  main, 
And  speeds  to  the  shore  of  its  old  home  a/""5" 


Where  its  fetterless  folds  o'er  each  mountain  and  pitta  §7 

Shall  wave  with  a  glory  that  never  shall  wane.  « 

Take  it  up  !  take  it  up  !  bear  it  back  from  afar  ! 
That  banner  must  blaze  'mid  the  lightning  of  war  ; 
Lay  your  hands  on  its  folds,  lift  your  eyes  to  the  sky, 
And  swear  that  you'll  bear  it  triumphant  or  die  : 
And  shout  to  the  clans  scattered  far  o'er  the  earth, 
To  join  in  the  march  to  the  land  of  their  birth  : 
And  wherever  the  exiles,  'neath  heaven's  broad  dome, 
Have  been  fated  to  suffer,  to  sorrow  and  roam, 
They'll  bound  on  die  sea,  and  away  o'er  the  foam, 
They'll  march  to  the  music  of  "Home,  sweet  Home." 


THE  BIRTH  OF  IRELAND. 

WITH  due  condescension,  I'd  call  your  attention  to  what  I  shall  mention  of 

Erin  so  green, 
And,  without  hesitation,  I'll  show  how  that  nation  became,  of  creation,  the 

gem  and  the  queen. 

'Twas  early  one  morning,  without  any  warning,  that  Venus  was  born  in  the 
beautiful  Say  ; 

And,  by  the  same  token,  and  sure  'twas  provoking,  her  pinions  were  soak- 
ing, and  wouldn't  give  play. 

Old  Neptune,  who  knew  her,  began  to  pursue  her,  in  order  to  woo  her — the 

wicked  old  Jew — 
And  almost  had  caught  her  atop  of  the  water — great  Jupiter's  daughter  ! — 

which  never  would  do. 

But  Jove,  the  great  janius,  looked  down  and  saw  Vanus  and  Neptune  so 

heinous  pursuing  her  wild, 
And  he  spoke  out  in  thunder  he'd  rend  him  asunder — and  sure  'twas  no 

wonder  ! — for  tazing  his  child. 

A  star  that  was  flying  hard  by  him  espying,  he  caught  with  small  trying 

and  down  let  it  snap  ; 
It  fell  quick  as  winking  on  Neptune  a-sinking,  and  gave  him,  I'm  thinking, 

a  bit  of  a  rap. 

That  star  it  was  dry  land,  both  lowland  and  highland,  and  formed  a  sweet  isl- 
and, the  land,  of  my  birth  : 

Thus  plain  is  the  story  that,  sent  down  from  glory,  old  Erin  asthore  is  the 
gem  of  the  earth  ! 

Upon  Erin  nately  jumped  Vanus  so  stately,  but  fainted  kase  lately  so  hard 

she  was  pressed  ; 
Which  much  did  bewilder,  but,  ere  it  had  killed  her,  her  father  distilled 

her  a  drop  of  the  best. 

That  sup  was  victorious  ;  it  made  her  feel  glorious — a  little  uproarious,  I 

fear  it  might  prove — 
So  how  ean  ye  blame  us  that  Ireland's  so  famous  for  drinking  and  beauty, 

for  fighting  and  love  ?  NATIONAL  TEACHER'S  MONTHLY. 


5S  ST.  PATRICK  AND  THE  SERPENT. 

A  Last  Relique  of  Father  Prout. 

IN  the  day*  of  good  St.  Patrick,  while  our  country  yet  was  free, 
While  her  name  was  known  and  honored  over  ev'ry  land  and  sea— 
The  snakes  and  toads  in  thousands  infested  all  our  bogs, 
And  no  respite  could  be  gotten  from  the  croaking  of  the  frogs. 

But  St.  Patrick  saw  the  nuisance,  and  by  the  cross  he  swore 
To  banish  all  the  varmint  from  our  island's  verdant  shore. 
Then  with  his  big  shillelagh  to  work  he  boldly  set, 
And  gave  them  all  a  licking  which  they've  not  forgotten  yet. 

Then  the  people  hoped  the  country  was  f<om  the  varmint  free  ; 
But  there  was  one  little  serpent  which  St.  Patrick  did  not  see. 
From  among  the  many  thousands  this  one  alone  was  left, 
Of  friends  and  home  and  kindred,  of  all  but  life  bereft. 

On  the  day  of  that  great  slaughter  he  was  scarce  three  inches  long  ; 
But  soon  by  ease  and  plenty  he  grew  both  large  and  strong. 
Full  twenty  yards  and  over  this  monster  was  in  length, 
And  surpass'd  all  snakes  before  him  in  ferocity  and  strength. 

Was  none  who  dare  attack  it  in  all  the  country  round ; 
None  brave  enough  to  whack  it  in  Killarney  could  be  found. 
But  when  St.  Patrick  heard  it,  with  anger  he  grew  red  ; 
Says  he,  ' '  I'll  slay  that  sarpint,  or  I  will  lose  rny  head  ! " 

And  with  the  words,  St.  Patrick,  his  shillelagh  in  his  hand, 

Set  off  to  old  Killarney  ;  and  there  he  took  his  stand 

Before  the  serpent's  cavern,  and  loudly  he  did  shout, 

"  Come  out,  you  scaly  blackguard  !  if  you're  not  afraid,  come  out  !  " 

But  well  that  cunning  serpent  knew  what  he  would  receive, 
If  he  to  fight  St.  Patrick  his  sure  retreat  should  leave. 
Says  he,  "  No,  no,  St.  Patrick,  that  gammon  won't  go  down  ; 
It's  myself  won't  lave  my  cavern  till  you  have  left  the  town." 

Then  says  the  saint,  "  In  cunning  I  never  met  my  match, 

And  by  some  manes  or  other  this  sarpint  I  will  catch." 

Then  off  he  went  to  Dublin,  and  there  he  got  a  box 

Secured  with  twenty  iron  bars  and  twenty  big  padlocks  ;  / 

And  with  the  box  upon  his  shoulder  to  the  bog  he  took  his  way, 
Where,  stretch'd  upon  the  green  sward,  the  serpent  sleeping  lay.          [stick  ; 
Says  the  saint,  "  Good  morning,  sarpint  !"  says  the  snake,  "  Just  cut  your 
For  if  you  don't,  I'll  make  you,  you  blackguard,  pretty  quick  ! " 

Says  the  saint,  "  Be  aisy,  darlint,  and  don't  be  gettin'  wild, 
Faix,  'tis  I  love  you,  mavourneen,  like  a  mother  loves  her  child  ; 
And  see  the  box  I've  brought  you  to  shield  you  from  the  cowld  ; 
Tis  big  enough  and  long  enough  the  whole  of  you  to  hould." 

Says  the  snake,  "  Since  you're  so  civil,  let  peace  between  us  be  ; 
But  that  box  is  not  half  large  enough  to  hold  the  likes  of  me." 
And  with  these  words  the  serpent  into  the  box  did  crawl, 
But  left  his  tail  outside,  as  if  the  box  had  been  too  small, 


ST.   PATRICK  AND   THE   SEEPENT.  59 

(Concliided.) 

Then  shouted  loud  St.  Patrick,  "  Mind  your  tail,  or  'twill  be  jamm'd  ! " 
And  down  the  heavy  iron  lid  with  all  his  strength  he  slamm'd. 
To  save  his  tail  the  serpent  pulled  it  quick  into  the  box, 
And  instantly  St.  Patrick  made  fast  the  bars  and  locks. 

Then  cries  the  humble  serpent,  "  Oh,  St.  Pathrick,  set  me  free, 
And  at  once  I'll  lave  the  country,  and  no  more  of  me  ye'll  see." 
Says  St.  Patrick,  "  Aisy,  darlint,  and  don't  give  way  to  sorrow  ; 
Perhaps,  if  you  behave  yourself,  I'll  let  you  out  to-morrow." 

Then  to  the  shore  St.  Patrick  carried  both  the  box  and  snake, 
And  with.one  heave  he  threw  them  far  out  into  the  lake. 
Then  he  walked  off  gayly  whistling  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green  ;" 
And  never  more  in  Ireland  has  another  snake  been  seen. 

Bat  when  on  summer  evenings  the  breeze  blows  off  the  shore, 
Or  when  the  lake  is  rippled  by  the  touch  of  passing  oar, 
The  snake  in  plaintive  accents,  which  once  heard  you'll  ne'er  forget, 
Cries  out,  "  Oh,  tare  and  ages  !  isn't  it  to-morrow  yet  ?" 


IRISH    ASTRONOMY 


BY  CHARLES  O.  HALPINE. 


A  veritable  myth,  touching  the  constellation  of  O'RYAN,  ignorantly  and  falsely  spells 

ORION. 

O'RYAN  was  a  man  of  might  And  says  he,  "Good  luck  attindyou, 

Whin  Ireland  was  a  nation,  And   when   you're   in   your   windin' 

But  poachin'  was  his  heart's  delight  sheet 

And  constant  occupation.  It's  up  to  heaven  I'll  sind  you." 
He  had  an  ould  militia  gun, 

And  sartin  sure  his  aim  was  ;  O'Ryan  gave  his  pipe  a  whiff  — 

He  gave  the  keepers  many  a  run,  "Them  tidin's  is  transportin', 

And  would'nt  mind  the  game  laws.  But  may  I  ax  your  saiutship  if 

There's  any  kind  of  sportin'?" 

St.  Pathrick  wanst  was  passin'  by  St.  Pathrick  said,  "  A  Lion's  there, 

O'Ryan's  little  houldin',  Two  Bears,  a  Bull,  and  Cancer  —  " 

And  as  the  saint  felt  wake  and  dhry,  "Bedad,"  says  Mick,   "the  huntin's 

He  thought  he'd  enther  bould  in  ;  rare, 

"O'Ryan,"  says  the  saint,  "avick  !  St.  Pathrick,  I'm  your  man,  sir  !" 

To  praich  at  Thurles  I'm  goin'  ; 

So  let  me  have  a  rasher,  quick,  So,  to  conclude  my  song  aright, 

And  a  dhrop  of  Innishowen."  For  fear  I'd  tire  your  patience, 

You'll  see  O'Ryan  any  night 

'  '  No  rasher  will  I  cook  for  you  Amid  the  constellations. 

While  betther  is  to  spare,  sir  ;  And  Venus  follows  in  his  track, 

But  here's  a  jug  of  mountain  dew,  Till  Mars  grows  jealous  raally, 

And  there's  a  rattlin'  hare,  sir."  But,  faith,  he  fears  the  Irish  knaok, 

St.  Pathrick  he  looked  mighty  sweet,  Of  handling  his  shillaly. 


60  THE  KILKENNY  CATS. 

O'FLTNN,  sh«  was  an  Irishman,  as  very  well  was  knowm, 
And  she  lived  down  in  Kilkenny,  and  she  lived  there  all  alone, 
W  ith  only  six  great  large  tom-cats,  that  knowed  their  ways  about  •, 
And  everybody  else  besides,  she  scrupulously  shut  out. 

Oh,  very  fond  of  cats  was  she,  and  whiskey,  too,  'tis  said  : 
She  didn't  feed  'em  very  much,  but  she  combed  'em  well  instead 
As  may  be  guessed,  these  large  tom-cats  did  not  get  very  sleek 
Upon  a  combing  once  a  day  and  "a  ha'porth "  once  a  week. 

Now  on  one  dreary  winter's  night  O'Flynn  she  went  to  bed 
With  the  whiskey-bottle  under  her  arm,  the  whiskey  in  her  head  ; 
The  six  great  large  tom-cats  they  all  sat  in  a  dismal  row, 
And  horridly  glared  their  hazy  eyes,  their  tails  wagged  to  and  fro. 

At  last  one  grim  graymalkin  spoke,  in  accents  dire  to  tell, 
And  dreadful  were  the  words  which  in  his  horrid  whisper  fell ; 
And  all  the  six  large  tom-cats  in  answer  loud  did  squall, 
"  Let's  kill  her,  and  let's  eat  her,  body,  bones,  and  all  !  " 

Oh,  horrible  !  oh,  terrible  !  oh,  deadly  tale  to  tell  ! 

When  the  sun  shone  through  the  window  hole  then  all  seemed  »till  and 
The  cats  all  sat  and  licked  their  paws  all  in  a  merry  ring,  [well ; 

But  nothing  else  in  all  the  house  looked  like  a  licing  thing. 

Anon  they  quarrelled  savagely — they  spat ;  they  swore  ;  they  hollered  ; 
At  last  these  six  great  large  tom-cats,  they  one  another  swallowed  ; 
And  naught  but  one  long  tail  was  left  in  that  once  peaceful  dwelling, 
And  a  very  tough  one,  too,  it  was — it's  the  same  that  I've  been  telling. 


DIGGING   FOR    GOLD. 

DARBY  KELLY  below  in  Kilkenny  did  live, 

A  sketch  of  whose  character  I'm  going  to  give  ; 

He  was  thought  by  the  people  a  green  polished  rogue, 

He  could  wastle  the  whiskey,  or  wastle  the  old  brogue  ; 

All  kinds  of  diseases  with  herbs  he  could  cure, 

He'd  interpret  your  dreams  to  be  certain  and  sure, 

By  the  boys  of  the  village  he  often  was  fool'd  ; 

For  aslape  or  awake,  he  was  dreaming  of  gould. 

He  had  a  fine  open  house,  but  the  winders  were  broke, 

The  gables  were  down  to  let  out  the  smoke ; 

Some  beautiful  pigs,  through  the  wide  world  to  range. 

Though  they  were  thin,  they  were  thick  with  the  mange, 

He  was  so  neglectful  of  domestic  affairs, 

The  rats  ate  the  bottoms  all  out  of  the  chairs, 

And  the  wife  by  the  husband  was  so  overruled, 

When  she  asked  him  for  coppers  he  was  talking  ef  geuld. 


DIGGING  FOR   GOLD.  61 

(Concluded.) 

The  house  thus  neglected,  sure  nothing  went  right ; 

When  a  youth  of  the  village  came  to  him  one  night 

A  nice  boy  he  was,  his  name  was  Dan  Mac, 

And  ready  to  fly  with  the  duds  on  his  back ; 

All  the  clothes  that  he  had  wasn't  enough 

To  make  him  a  bolster  to  stick  on  a  crutch, 

And  his  juvenile  days  in  a  limekiln  was  schooled, 

But  he  used  to  cod  Darby  about  finding  gould. 

Says  Dan  :  Ere  last  night  I  had  a  beautiful  dream  ; 
Bit  bad  luck  to  the  doubt !  last  night  I'd  the  same  ; 
And  to-day,  as  I  dozed,  after  slacking  some  lime, 
I  dreamt  it  again  for  the  third  and  last  time. 
Och,  murder  !  says  Darby,  come  tell  us  your  dream, 
Same  time  his  two  eyes  like  rockets  did  gleam, 
Says  Dan,  I  dreamt  at  the  castle  Kilcool 
I  found  a  jar  that  was  crammed  full  of  gould. 

Poor  Darby  a  big  mouth  opened  like  a  dead  Haicke, 
Saying,  You'll  be  a  hero,  just  like  your  namesake  ; 
You'll  ride  in  your  coach,  you  fortunate  elf, 
While  I  may  be  in  one.  going  down  to  the  Hulks. 
No  matter,  said  Darby,  we  must  emigrate, 
So  come  down  at  midnight,  and  don't  be  too  late  ; 
Bring  some  boys  whose  courage  won't  easy  be  cooled, 
And  we'll  dig  till  daylight  to  find  all  the  gould. 

They  arrived  at  the  castle  at  about  one  o'clock, 
Where  Dan  dreamt  he  found  all  the  gold  in  a  crock, 
They  all  set  to  work  with  picks,  shovels,  and  spades, 
And  a  hole  that  would  swallow  a  house  soon  was  made. 
Says  Darby  :  Bad  luck  to  the  curse  we  must  give, 
Or  we'll  be  beggars  as  long  as  we  live  ! 
Says  Dan  :  May  the  devil  on  my  back  be  stooled, 
For  I  have  bursted  my  breeches  in  digging  for  gould  ! 

The  prayers  availed  nothing,  the  crock  was  soon  found, 
Tim  Rooney  he  lifted  it  over  the  ground  : 
With  joy  Darby  leaped  on  the  back  of  Ned  Fail, 
Like  a  fish  from  the  stream  with  a  hook  in  his  tail. 
Says  Darby  :  My  wife  won't  abuse  me  to-night, 
When  I  take  home  the  shiners  so  yellow  and  bright  I 
I'll  buy  house  and  land  about  Kilcool, 
And  we'll  all  bless  the  night  we  went  digging  for  gould  ! 

The  crock  was  then  placed  on  Darby's  own  back, 

To  carry  home  and  each  man  have  his  whack  ; 

They  arrived  at  the  door  with  the  gould  to  be  sacked, 

When  Mac  with  a  spade  knocked  the  crock  into  smash. 

Poor  Darby,  near  smothered,  ran  in  with  affright, 

His  wife  jumps  up  to  get  him  a  light, 

When  she  heard  Darby  mourning,  her  passion  was  cooled, 

She  knew  by  the  smell  he  was  covered  with  gould  ! 


ROBERT  BMMETTS  SPEECH. 


On  the  23d  of  June,  1803,  a  rebellion  against  the  Government  broke  out  in  Dublin,  in  which 
Robert  Emmett,  at  the  time  only  twenty-three  years  of  age,  was  a  principal  actor.  It  proved  a 
failure.  Emmett  was  arrested,  having  missed  the  opportunity  to  escape,  it  is  said,  by  lingering  to 
take  leave  of  a  daughter  of  Curran,  the  gifted  orator,  to  whom  he  bore  an  attachment,  whi:h  was 
reciprocated.  On  the  igth  of  September,  1803,  Emmett  was  tried  for  high  treason  at  the  Sessions 
House,  Dublin,  before  Lord  Norbury,  one  of  the  Chief  Judges  of  the  King's  Bench,  and  others; 
was  found  guilty,  and  executed  the  next  day.  Through  his  counsel,  he  had  asked,  at  the  trial,  that 
the  judgment  of  the  Court  might  be  postponed  until  the  next  morning.  This  request  was  not  grant- 
ed. The  clerk  of  the  Crown  read  the  indictment,  and  announced  the  verdict  found,  in  the  usual 
form.  He  then  concluded  thus  :  "What  have  you,  therefore  now  to  say,' why  judgment  of  death 
and  execution  should  not  be  awarded  against  you,  according  to  law  ''."  Standing  forward  in  the 
dock,  in  front  of  the  Bench,  Emmett  made  the  following  impromptu  address,  which  we  give  entire. 
Dividing  it  only  into  passages  of  a  suitable  length  for  Declamation.  At  his  execution,  Emmett 
displayed  great  fortitude.  As  he  was  passing  out  of  his  cell,  on  his  way  to  the  gallows,  he  met 
the  turnkey,  who  had  become  much  attached  to  him.  Being  fettered,  Emmett  could  not  give  his 
hand;  so  he  kissed  the  poor  fellow  on  the  cheek,  who,  overcome  by  the  mingled  condescension  and 
tenderness  of  the  act,  fell  senseless  at  the  feet  of  the  youthful  victim,  and  did  not  recover  till  the 
latter  was  no  longer  among  the  living. 

What  have  I  to  say,  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  on  me,  according  to 
law  ?  I  have  nothing  to  Bay  which  can  alter  your  predetermination,  or  that  it  would  become 
me  to  say  with  any  view  to  the  mitigation  of  that  sentence  which  yon  are  here  to  pronounce, 
and  which  I  must  abide.  But  I  have  that  to  say  which  interests  me  more  than  life,  and  which 
you  have  labored — as  was  necessarily  your  office  in  the  present  circumstance  of  this  oppressed 
country — to  destroy.  I  have  much  to  say,  why  my  reputation  should  be  rescued  from  the 
load  of  false  accusation  and  calumny  which  has  been  heaped  upon  it.  I  do  not  imagine  that, 
seated  where  you  are,  your  minds  can  be  so  free  from  impurity  as  to  receive  the  least  im- 
pression from  what  I  am  going  to  utter.  I  have  no  hope  that  I  can  anchor  my  character  in 
the  breast  of  a  Court  constituted  and  trammelled  as  this  is.  I  only  wish,  and  it  is  the  utmost 
I  expect,  that  your  Lordships  may  suffer  it  to  float  down  your  memories,  untainted  by  the 
foul  breath  of  predjudice,  until  it  finds  some  more  hospitable  harbor,  to  shelter  it  from  the 
rude  storm  by  which  it  is  at  present  buffeted. 

Were  I  only  to  suffer  death,  after  being  adjudged  guilty  by  your  tribunal,  T  should  bow  in 
silence,  and  meet  the  fate  that  awaits  me  without  a  murmer.  But  the  sentence  of  the  law 
which  delivers  my  body  to  the  executioner  will,  through  the  ministry  of  that  law,  labor,  in  its 
own  vindication,  to  consign  my  character  to  obloquy:  for  their  must  be  guilt  somewhere — 
whether  in  the  sentence  of  the  Court,  or  in  the  catastrophe,  posterity  must  determine.  A  man 
in  my  situation,  my  Lords,  has  not  only  to  encounter  the  difficulties  of  fortune,  and  the  force 
of  power  01  er  minds  which  it  hza  corrupted  or  subjugated,  but  the  difficulties  of  established 
predjudice : — the  man  dies,  but  his  memory  lives :  that  mine  may  not  perish,  that  it  may  live  in 
the  respect  of  my  countrymen,  I  seize  upon  this  opportunity  to  vindicate  myself  from  some  of 
the  charges  alleged  against  me.  \Vhen  my  spirit  shall  be  wafted  to  a  more  friendly  port, — when 
my  shade  shall  have  joined  the  bands  of  those  martyred  heroes  who  have  shed  their  blood,  on 
the  scaffold  and  in  the  field,  in  defence  of  their  country  and  of  virtue,— this  is  my  hope:  I 
•wish  that  my  memory  and  name  may  animate  those  who  survive  me,  while  I  look  down  with 
complacency  on  the  destruction  of  that  perfidious  Government  which  upholds  its  dominion 
by  blasphemy  of  the  Most  High,— which  displays  its  power  over  man  as  over  the  beasts  of  the 
forest, — which  sets  man  upon  his  brother,  and  lifts  his  hand,  in  the  name  of  God,  against  the 
throat  of  his  fellow,  who  believes  or  doubts  a  little  more,  or  a  little  less,  than  the  Government 
standard, —  a  Government  which  is  steeled  to  barbarity  by  the  cries  of  the  orphans  and  the 
tears  of  the  widows  which  it  has  made* 

I  appeal  to  the  immaculate  God, — to  the  throne  of  Heaven,  before  which  I  must  shortly 
appear, -to  the  blood  of  the  murdered  patriots  who  have  gone  before, — that  my  conduct  baa 
been,  through  all  this  peril,  and  through  all  my  purposes,  governed  only  by  the  convictions 
which  I  have  uttered,  and  by  no  other  view  than  that  of  the  emancipation  of  my  country 
from  the  superinhuman  oppression  under  which  she  has  so  long  and  too  patiently  travailed; 
and  that  I  confidently  and  assuredly  hope  that,  wild  and  chimerical  as  it  may  appear,  there  is 
still  union  and  strength  in  Ireland  to  accomplish  this  noblest  enterprise.  Of  this  I  speak 
with  the  confidence  of  intimate  knowlege,  and  with  tbe  consolation  that  appertains  to  that 
confidence.  Ihink  not,  my  Lords,  I  say  this  for  the  petty  gratification  of  giving  you  a  transitory 
uneasiness ;  a  man  who  never  yet  raised  his  voice  to  assert  a  lie  will  not  hazard  his  character 
with  posterity  by  asserting  a  falsehood  on  a  subject  so  important  to  his  country,  and  on  an 

*  Here  Lord  Norbury  «»id:  "The  weak  and  wicked  enthuriaiU  who  feel  as  jou  feel  are  unequal  to  tbe  accom- 
plishment of  their  wild  deiigni." 


occasion  like  this.  Yes,  my  Lords ;  a  man  who  does  not  wish  to  have  his  epitaph  written 
until  his  country  is  liberated  will  not  leave  a  weapon  in  the  power  of  envy,  nor  a  pretence  to 
impeach  the  probity  which  he  means  to  preserve  even  in  the  grave  to  which  tyranny  consigns 
him.* 

Again  I  say,  that  what  I  have  spoken  was  not  intended  for  your  Lordships,  whose  situa- 
tion 1  commiserate  ratber  than  envy;-  my  expressions  were  for  my  countrymen;  if  there  is 
a  true  Irishman  present,  let  my  last  words  cheer  him  in  the  hour  of  his  affliction — t 

I  have  always  understood  it  to  be  the  duty  of  a  judge,  when  a  prisoner  has  been  convicted, 
to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  the  law;  I  have  also  understood  that  judges  sometimes  think  it 
their  duty  to  hear  with  patience,  and  to  speak  with  humanity;  to  exhort  the  victim  of  the  laws, 
and  to  offer,  with  tender  benignity,  opinions  of  the  motives  by  which  he  was  actuated  in  the 
crime  of  which  he  had  been  adjudged  guilty.  That  a  judge  has  thought  it  his  duty  so  to  have 
done,  I  have  no  doubt;  but  where  is  the  boasted  freedom  of  your  institutions,— where  is  the 
vaunted  impartiality,  clemency,  and  mildness  of  your  courts  of  justice,— if  an  unfortunate 
prisoner,  whom  your  policy,  and  not  justice,  is  about  to  deliver  into  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner, is  not  suffered  to  explain  his  motives  sincerely  and  truly,  and  to  vindicate  the  princi- 
ples by  which  he  was  actuated  ?  

My  Lords,  it  may  be  a  part  of  the  system  of  angry  justice  to  bow  a  man's  mind,  by  humil- 
iation, to  the  purposed  ignominy  of  the  scaffold;  but  woise  to  me  than  the  scaffold's  shame, 
or  the  scaffold's  terrors,  would  be  the  shame  of  such  foul  and  unfounded  imputations  as  have 
been  laid  "against  me  in  this  Court.  You.  my  Lord,  are  a  judge.  I  am  the  supposed  culprit. 
I  am  a  man,— you  are  a  man  also.  By  a  revolution  of  power,  we  might  change  places,  though 
we  never  could  change  characters.  Jf  I  stand  at  the  bar  of  this  Court,  and  dare  not  vindicate 
my  character,  what  a  farce  is  your  justice  !  If  I  stand  at  this  bar,  and  dare  not  vindicate  my 
character,  how  dare  you  calumniate  it  ?  Does  the  sentence  of  death,  which  your  unhallowed 
policy  inflicts  on  my  body,  also  condemn  my  tongue  to  silence,  and  my  reputation  to  reproach? 
Your  executioner  may  abridge  the  period  of  my  existence;  but  while  I  e>ist,  I  shall  not  for- 
bear to  vindicate  my  character  and  motives  from  your  aspersions.  As  a  man  to  whom  fame  is 
dearer  than  life,  I  will  make  the  last  use  of  that  life  in  doing  j  ustice  to  that  reputation  which 
is  to  live  after  me,  and  which  is  the  only  legacy  I  can  leave  to  those  I  honor  and  love,  and  for 
whom  I  am  proud  to  perish.  As  men,  my  Lord,  we  mus-t  appear,  on  the  great  day,  at  one 
common  tribunal;  and  it  will  then  remain  for  the  Searcher  of  all  hearts  to  show  a  collective 
universe  who  are  engaged  in  the  most  virtuous  actions,  or  actuated  by  the  purest  motives,— 
my  country's  oppressors  or-  $ 

My  Lord,  shall  a  dying  man  be  denied  the  legal  privilege  of  exculpating  himself,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  community,  of  an  undeserved  reproach  thrown  upon  him  during  his  trial,  by 
charging  him  with  ambition,  and  attempting  to  cast  away,  for  a  paltry  consideration,  the 
liberties  of  his  country  ?  Mhy,  then,  insult  me  ?  or  rather,  why  insult  justice,  in  demanding 
of  me  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  ?  I  know,  my  Lord,  that  form  pre- 
scribes that  you  should  ask  the  question ;  the  form  also  presumes  the  right  of  answering  I 
1  his,  no  doubt,  may  be  dispensed  with;  and  so  might  the  whole  ceremony  of  the  trial,  since 
sentence  was  already  pronounced  at  the  castle  before  your  jury  was  empanelled.  Tour  Lord- 
ships are  but  the  priests  of  the  oracle,  and  I  submit  to  the  sacrifice;  but  I  insist  on  the  whole 
of  the  form.  §  

I  am  charged  with  being  an  emissary  of  France.  An  emissary  of  Prance  I— and  for  what 
end  ?  It  is  alleged  that  1  wished  to  sell  the  independence  of  my  country  1  And  for  what  end  ? 
Was  this  the  object  of  my  ambition?  and  is  this  the  mode  by  which  a  tribunal  of  justice 
reconciles  contradictions  ?  No  I  I  am  no  emissary.  My  ambition  was  to  hold  a  place 
among  the  deliverers  of  my  country, — not  in  power,  nor  in  profit,  but  in  the  glory  of  the 
achievement.  Sell  my  country's  independence  to  France  I  And  for  what  ?  For  a  change  of 
masters?  No;  but  for  ambition  !  O  !  my  country  I  was  it  personal  ambition  that  could 
influence  me  ?  Had  it  been  the  scul  of  my  actions  ci.uld  I  not,  by  my  education  and  fortune, 
by  the  rank  and  consideration  of  my  lamily,  have  placed  myself  among  the  proudest  of  your 
oppressors  ?  My  country  was  my  idol.  'J  o  it  I  sacrificed  every  selfish,  evtry  endearing  senti- 
ment; and  for  it  I  now  offer  up  my  Hie  !  O  God  1  No  I  my  Lord;  1  acted  as  an  Irishman, 
determined  on  delivering  my  country  from  the  yoke  of  a  foreign  and  unrelenting  tyranny  and 
from  the  u.ore  palling  yoke  of  a  domestic  faction,  its  joint  partner  and  perpetrator  in  the 
patricide,  whose  reward  is  the  ignominy  of  existing  with  an  exterior  cf  splendor,  and  a  con- 
sciousness of  depravity.  It  was  the  wish  of  my  heart  to  extricate  my  country  from  this 
doubly  riveted  despotism  I  wished  to  place  her  independence  beyond  the  reach  of  any  power 
on  earth.  I  wished  to  exalt  her  to  that  proud  station  in  the  world  which  Providence  had 
fitted  her  to  fill. 

Connection  with  France  was,  indeed,  intended ;  but  only  as  far  as  mutual  interest  would 
sanction  or  require.  "Were  the  French  to  assume  any  authority  inconsistent  with  the  purest 
independence,  it  would  be  the  signal  for  their  destruction.  \\e  sought  aid  of  them;  and  we 

•  He  was  here  intenupted  by  Loid  Norbury,  who  said :  "  You  proceed  to  unwarrantable  lengths,  in  older  to 
exasperate  and  delude  the  unwary,  and  circulate  opinions  of  the  most  dangerous  tendency,  for  the  purpose  of 
mischief." 

t  Lord  Norbnry  here  interrupted  the  speaker  with,— ''What  you  have  hitherto  said  confirms  and  justifies  the 

t  Here  Lord  Norbury  exclaimed;  "  Listen.  Sir,  to  the  sentence  of  the  tow." 
§  Here  Mr.  Emniett  paused  and  the  Court  desired  him  to  proceed.' 


X  - 


Bought  it,  as  we  had  assurance  we  should  obtain  it, — as  auxiliaries  in  war,  and  allies  in  peace . 
Were  the  French  to  come  as  invaders  or  enemies,  uninvited  by  the  wishes  of  the  People,  I 
should  oppose  them  to  the  utmost  of  my  strength.  Yes,  my  countrymen,  I  would  meet  them 
on  the  beach,  with  a  sword  in  one  hand  and  a  torch  in  the  other.  I  would  meet  them  with  all 
the  destructive  fury  of  war;  and  I  would  animate  you  to  immolate  them  in  their  boats,  before 
they  had  contaminated  the  soil.  If  they  succeeded  in  landing,  and  if  we  were  forced  to  retire 
before  superior  discipline,  I  would  dispute  every  inch  of  ground,  raze  every  house,  burn  every 
blade  of  grass  before  them,  and  the  last  entrenchment  of  liberty  should  be  my  grave.  What  I 
could  not  do  myself  if  I  should  fall,  I  would  leave  in  charge  to  my  countrymen  to  accomplish ; 
because  I  should  feel  conscious  that  life,  more  than  death,  is  unprofitable,  when  a  foreign 
nation  holds  my  country  in  subjection. 

But  it  was  not  as  an  enemy  that  the  succors  of  France  were  to  land.  I  looked,  indeed,  for 
the  assistance  of  France;  but  I  wished  to  prove  to  France,  and  to  the  world,  that  Irishmen 
deserved  to  be  assisted;  that  they  were  indignant  at  slavery,  and  ready  to  assert  the  independ- 
ence and  liberty  of  their  country  !  I  wished  to  procure  for  my  country  the  guarantee  which 
Washington  procured  for  America, — to  procure  an  aid  which,  by  its  example,  would  be  as 
important  as  by  its  valor, — allies  disciplined,  gallant,  pregnant  with  science  and  experience . 
who  would  preserve  the  good  and  polish  the  rough  points  of  our  character ;  who  would  come 
to  us  as  strangers,  and  leave  us  as  friends,  after  sharing  our  perils  and  elevating  our  destiny. 
These  were  my  objects ;  not  to  receive  new  task-masters,  but  to  expel  old  tyrants.  These  were 
my  views,  and  these  only  become  Irishmen.  It  was  for  these  ends  I  sought  aid  from  France, 
because  France,  even  as  an  enemy,  could  not  be  more  implacable  than  the  enemy  already  in 
the  bosom  of  my  country.*  

I  have  been  charged  with  that  importance,  in  the  efforts  to  emancipate  my  country,  as  to 
be  considered  the  key-stone  of  the  combination  of  Irishmen,  or,  as  your  Lordship  expressed  it, 
"  the  life  and  blood  of  the  conspiracy."  You  do  me  honor  overmuch.  You  have  given  to  the 
subaltern  all  the  credit  of  a  superior.  There  are  men  engaged  in  this  conspiracy  who  are  not 
only  superior  to  me,  but  even  to  your  own  conceptions  of  yourself,  my  Lord ; — men,  betore  the 
splendor  of  whose  genius  and  virtues  I  should  bow  with  respectful  deference,  and  who  would 
think  themselves  dishonored  to  be  called  your  friends,— who  would  not  disgrace  themselves 
by  shaking  your  blood-stained  hand  !  t 

What,  my  Lord,  shall  you  tell  me  on  the  passage  to  the  scaffold  which  that  tyranny,  of  which 
you  are  only  the  intermediate  minister,  has  erected  for  my  murder,  that  I  am  accountable  for 
all  the  blood  tbat  has  been  and  will  be  shed,  in  this  struggle  of  the  oppressed  against  the 
oppressor?  Shall  you  tell  me  this,  and  must  I  be  so  very  a  slave  as  not  to  repel  it?  I,  who 
fear  not  to  approach  the  Omnipotent  Judge,  to  answer  for  the  conduct  of  my  short  life, — am 
I  to  be  appalled  here,  before  a  mere  remnant  of  mortality  ? —by  you,  too,  who,  if  it  were  possi- 
ble, to  collect  all  the  innocent  blood  that  you  have  caused  to  be  shed,  in  your  unhallowed 
ministry,  in  one  great  reservior,  your  Lordship  might  swim  in  it !  t 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead  to  charge  me  with  dishonor.  Let  no  man  attaint  my 
memory  by  believing  that  I  could  have  engaged  in  any  cause  but  that  of  my  country's  liberty 
and  independence,  or  that  I  could  have  become  the  pliant  minion  of  power  in  the  oppression 
and  the  miseries  of  my  countrymen.  The  proclamation  of  the  Provisional  Government  speaks 
for  my  views.  No  inference  can  be  tortured  from  it  to  countenance  barbarity  or  debasement 
at  home,  or  subjection,  humiliation  or  treachery  from  abroad.  I  would  not  have  submitted 
to  a  foreign  oppressor,  for  the  same  reason,  that  I  would  resist  the  domestic  tyrant.  In  the 
dignity  of  freedom  I  would  have  lought  upon  the  threshold  of  my  country,  and  its  enemy 
should  enter  only  by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corpse.  And  am  I,  who  lived  but  for  my  country 
— who  have  subjected  myself  to  the  dangers  of  the  jealous  and  watchful  oppressor,  and  now  to 
the  bondage  of  the  grave,  only  to  give  my  countrymen  their  rights,  and  my  country  her  in- 
dfoendence,— am  I  to  be  loaded  with  calumny,  and  not  suflered  to  resent  it  ?  No!  God  forbid  1§ 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in  the  concerns  and  cares  of  those  who 
were  dear  to  them  in  this  transitory  life,  O,  ever  dear  and  venerated  shade  of  my  departed 
father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  upon  the  conduct  of  your  suffering  son,  and  see  if  I  have 
even  for  a  moment,  deviated  from  those  principles  of  morality  and  patriotism  which  it  was 
your  care  to  instil  into  my  youthful  mind,  and  lor  which  I  am  now  to  offer  up  my  life  ! 

My  Lords,  you  seem  impatient  for  the  sacrifice.  Ihe  blood  for  which  you  thirst  is  not 
congealed  by  the  artificial  terrors  which  surround  your  victim; — it  circulates  warmly  and  un- 
ruffled, through  the  channels  which  God  created  for  nobler  purposes,  but  which  you  are  bent 
to  distroy,  for  purposes  so  grievous  that  they  cry  to  heaven,  Be  ye  patient  !  I  have  but  a 
few  words  more  to  say.  I  am  going  to  my  cold  and  silent  grave.  My  lamp  of  life  is  nearly 
extinguished.  My  race  is  run.  The  grave  opens  to  receive  me, — and  I  sink  into  its  bosom  ! 
I  have  but  one  request  to  ask,  at  my  departure  from  this  world;  — it  is  the  charity  of  its  silence. 
Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph;  for,  as  no  man  who  knows  my  motives  dare  no w  vindicate 
them,  let  not  predjudice  or  ignorance  asperse  them.  Let  them  and  me  repose  in  obscurity 
and  peace,  ana  my  tomb  remain  nninscribed,  until  other  times  and  other  men  can  do  justice 
to  my  character.  When  my  country  takes  her  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,— then, 
and  not  till  then, — let  my  epitaph  be  written  I  I  have  done. 

*  Here  be  was  interrupted  by  the  Court. 

t  Here  be  was  interrupted  by  Lord  Xorbnry.  J  Here  the  jodge  interfered. 

§  Here  Lord  Norbury  told  the  prisoner  that  hi*  principles  were  treasonable  and  subversive  of  government,  and  bU 
language  unbecoming  a  penon  in  tiis  situation;  and  tbat  bis  father,  the  late  Dr.  Emmett,  w«i  a  man  who  -would  BO> 


STANDARD    BECITATI 
A  ( 


"'[ORS, 


"mil  0« 

000  612553    8        g 
School,  Lyceum,  Parlor,  and  other  Entertainments, 

By  FRANCES  P.  SULLIVAN. 


CONTENTS    OF    No.  4. 


Resignation.  By  u.  W.  Longfellow  ....  3 
At  the  Morgue.  By  Edinimd  G.  Stedman  4 
John  Burns  of  Gettysburg.  By  Bret 

Harte 4 

The  Pledge  at  Spunky  Point.  By  John 

Hay 5 

The  Ivy  Green.  By  Charles  Dickens  ...  6 
Conductor  Bradley.  By  John  G.Whittier  6 
Ring  Down  The  Drop— I  Cannot  Play. 

By  J.  W.  Watson. 7 

The  Battle-Song  of  Labor 8 

The  Haunted  Palace.  By  Edgar  Allan 

Poe 8 

Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn.  Robert 

Southey 9 

The  Clown's  Story.  Vandyke  Browne...  11 
The  Execution  of  Montrose.  By  W.  E. 

Aytoun 12 

The  Old  Forsaken  School-House.  By 

JohnH.  Yates 14 

The  Two  Beggars 15 

The  Young  Tramp.  By  Charles  F.  Adam  15 

Song  of  the  Mystic.  Father  Ryan 16 

Truth — Freedom — Virtue.  An  Address 

toa  Child  17 

The  little  Cup-Bearer 17 

Leaving  the  Homestead 18 

In  the  Floods.  By  Isabella  Fyvie  Mayo  18 

Alabama.  By  Mrs.  Hemans 19 

"If  Things  was  only  Sich."  By  B.  P. 

Shillaber  20 

The  Mountains  of  Life.  By  J.  G.  Clark  20 
Give  me  the  Hand.  By  Goodman  Barnaby  20 

The  King's  Temple 21 

The  Portrait .  By  Owen  Meredith 22 

The  Guard's  Story 23 

The  Red  Jacket.  George  M.  Baker 23 

Minot's  Ledge.  By  Fitz-James  O'Brien.  24 

The  Bondage  of  Drink 25 

The  King's  Picture.  By  Helen  B.  Bost- 

wick 25 

Night.  By  James  Montgomery 26 

Ouster's  Last  Charge.  By  Frederick  Whit- 
taker 26 


PAO«. 

Four  Lives.  By  &B  ...  t  B.  Freeman... .  28 

Eternal  Justice.  By  Charles  Mackay 29 

The  Fatal  Glass.  By  Laura  U.  Case  ....  30 
Though  Lost  to  Sight,  to  Memory  Dear. 

By  Ruthven  Jenkyns 30 

If  31 

Our  Ships  at  Sea.  By  George  W.  Bniigay  51 

Scatter  the  Germs  of  the  Bdautiful 32 

The  Pride  of  Battery  B.  By  E.  H.  Gassa- 

way 32 

I'm  with  You  once  again.  By  Gt  orge  P. 

Morris 83 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp.  By  Robert 

Browning  33 

Marion's  Dinner.  By  Edward  C.  Jones.  34 
Tale  of  a  Temptation.  By  Alice  Hortou  34 
The  Sailor-Boy's  Dream.  By  William 

Dimoud 36 

A  Sailor's  Story.  By  Mrs.  C.  H.  N. 

Thomas 37 

Xerxes  at  the  Hellespont.  By  R.  C. 

Trench 38 

The  Flight  of  Xerxes.  By  Maria  Jane 

Jewsbury  38 

Hero  and  Leander.  By  Leigh  Hunt  ....  39 

The  Avalanche 40 

The  Surgeon's  Tale.  By  Barry  Cornwall  40 
Clear  the  Way.  By  Charles  Mackay  ....  41 

The  Toast.  By  Mary  Kyle  Dallas 41 

Baby.  By  George  Macdouald 42 

The  Lips  that  Touch  Liquor  Must  Never 

Touch  Mine.  By  George  W.  Young.  42 
The  Ideal  and  the  'Real.  By  I.  Edgar 

Jones  48 

The  Bricklayers.  By  G.  H.  Barnes 44 

The  Charge  by  the  Ford.  By  Thomas 

Dunn  English 45 

Music  in  Camp.  By  John  R.  Thompson  45 
Maturnus'  Address  to  His  Band.  By  Ed- 
ward Spencer 46 

Jo,  the  Tramp.  By  Edgar  M.  Chipmau  47 
The  Death  of  Hofer.  By  James  C.  Man- 

gan 47 

Memory.  By  James  A.  Garfield, 48 


Price  12  Cents  by  Mail.     1  and  2  Cent  Stamps  taken. 
Address     HI.  J."  IVERS   &  CO., 

86  NASSAU  STREET,  JV.  Y.  City. 


CUSHING'S  MANUAL 


CONTAINING 


RULES  of  PROCEEDING  and  DEBATE 

OF 

DELIBERATIVE  ASSEMBLIES. 


A  Complete  Guide  for  Instruction  and  Reference  in  all  Matters  pertaining 
the  Management  of  Public  Meetings  according  to  Parliamentary  Usages. 

BY 

LUTHER    S.  CTJSHING. 


REVISED  BY 

FRANCES   P.  SUIJLIVAK. 


The  contents  embrace  the  following  subjects : 


Addition  of  Propositions. 

kisi  of  members.                          Question. 

Adjournment. 

Main  Question. 

Quorum. 

Amendment. 

Majority. 

Reading  of  Paper*. 

Apology. 

Members. 

Reception. 

Assembly,  Deliberative. 

Membership. 

Recommitment. 

Assembling. 

Motion. 

Reconsideration. 

Blanks,  filling  of. 
Chairman,    preliminary  elec* 

Naming  a  member. 
Officers. 

Recording  Officer. 
Recurrence  of  Business. 

Committees.                 [tion  of. 

Order  of  a  deliberative  assem- 

Reports  of  Committees, 

Committee  of  the  Whole 

Order  of  business.            Lbly. 

Reprimand. 

Commitment. 

Order,  rules  of. 

Resolution. 

Communications. 

Order,  call  to. 

Returns. 

Consent  of  the  assembly 
Contested  Elections. 

Orders  of  the  Day. 
Organization. 

Roll. 
Rules. 

Credentials. 

Papers  and  Documents. 

Secondary  Questions. 

Debate. 

Parliamentary  Law. 

Seconding  of  motions. 

Decorum,  Breaches  of. 

Parliamentary  Rules. 

Secretary. 

Disorderly  Conduct. 
Disorderly  Words. 
Division. 

Petitions. 
Postponement. 
Power  of  assembly  to  eject 

Separation  of  proposition*. 
Speaking. 
Speaking  member. 

Elections  and  Returns. 

Preamble.                [strangers. 

Speech,  reading  of,  by  mem* 

Expulsion. 

Precedence. 

Subsidiary  Questions,      [ber. 

Floor. 

President. 

Suspension  of  a  rule. 

Forms  of  Proceeding. 
Incidental  Questions. 

Presiding  Officer. 
Previous  Question. 

Transposition  of  proposition. 
Vice-President. 

Introduction  of  Business. 

Privileged  Questions. 

Voting. 

Journal. 
Judgment   of  an    aggregate 

Proceedings,  how  set  in  mo- 
Punishment,                       [lion. 

Will  of  assembly. 
Withdrawal  of  motion. 

Lie  in  the  Table.           [body. 

Quarrel  between  members. 

Yeas  and  Nays. 

In  addition  to  the  abpve  this  volume  contains 

THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AND  THE 

DECflLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 


808  Pages.     Bound  in  paper,  25  cents  ;   bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  50  «e*fe. 


M.  J.   IVERS  &  CO., 

£6  Nassau  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


